


Out of the Woods

by quellefemme



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Eventual Smut, Excruciatingly Slow Burn, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mixed POV, Slow Burn, Smut, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quellefemme/pseuds/quellefemme
Summary: Evelyn Trevelyan lives her life steeled away. Whether from distrust of others or of herself, she keeps herself measured at all times—self-contained. When Andraste grants Evelyn her holy task, the mage finds herself desperately wanting to rise to Andraste's call but she is terrified by the new world that she has been forced into. Unused to being anything other than a Circle mage, she finds herself learning what it means to be a friend, lover, and hero.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

When Evelyn had awoken, her knees aching against the hard stone beneath them and her wrists raw from the chafing of the cuffs that bound them together, she was resolved to say nothing to the woman interrogating her who had already decided her guilt. Although the news of the Conclave took her breath from her and nearly doubled her over in grief, she fought to show none of it to her captors. They were reading her, crafting the narrative of her guilt, and would drag her through Fereldan as the Divine’s killer no matter her innocence—as a mage, she did not get the privilege of justice; she was born guilty simply for the magic her body held. 

It was not until the Seeker dragged Evelyn to her feet, replaced her cuffs with rope, and told her what was speculated of the mark that Evelyn spoke.

“If I can help, I will.”

The Seeker nodded her head solemnly. Then, when she and the Seeker were attacked by demons, she spoke again, furious with the Seeker’s demand to drop her weapon. 

“Do you really think I need a staff to be dangerous, Seeker?”

Any sympathy that Evelyn had garnered from the woman immediately lost though she spoke the truth. The truth of mages—scorned. Yet, a flicker of guilt met her obstinance. She was dangerous, wasn’t she? There was proof enough of that. 

As soon as she closed her first rift, the sounds of the world came through as if she were submerged in water. The apostate took her hand, observing the mark, speaking to her, but she made no sense of it. The others introduced themselves, but she merely nodded. It was unnecessary. The Seeker said the mark was killing her. No, names were unimportant. They had to keep moving forward. 

At the forward camp, the world became loud again. The Seeker argued with the Chancellor and Evelyn began losing her patience. 

“So no one is in charge here?” she snapped. 

More bickering from the Chancellor, bickering between the Seeker and the hooded Orlesian woman on reaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Did they not see the sky cracked open in reckoning as she did? Did they not feel the same urgency as she did? The Seeker turned to her, asking her opinion. Evelyn nearly scoffed at her sudden inclusion in the conversation but pushed down her anger.

“Charge with the soldiers. There’s no time to waste.”

The world rushed around her. The soldiers clattered in their armor beside her, taking to battle with a fervor. Or fear? It did not matter; the two feelings existed as one within herself. A meteor came hurtling from the sky and crushed the man beside her into the ground. She made an effort to stop, to see if somehow still yet lived, but Casssandra dragged her away and forward. Then, suddenly, they were in the thick of it. Demons everywhere, horrors that she had only ever read at the Tower, and the screams of the Terrors nearly brought her to her knees. Maker, she wasn’t strong enough for this. 

Then, it happened. Like the snuffing out of a candle, she abandoned any semblance of emotion. She steeled herself against the brutality of the scene. Rose up in her power by separating her mind from body as she had been taught. The sky filled with static, ready to meet her there, and the anchor burned in her palm. She tore through the waifs like a wild dog through the skin of a rabbit. When the ground burst up in rock and green light, she unleashed the storm of magic that cracked deep in her chest to rip through the demon that dared come up through the earth. Her magic had never felt so potent. It nearly carried her across the ruins; she did not feel the stone beneath her. A man stood in the wake of a massive demon—alone—his red cloak rippling like a pool of blood. Men fell around him, others rushed to the aids of others, but not to him. Evelyn drank the magic greedily out of the sky and felt the electricity gathering in her palms. It felt different now, with the anchor, but it still bloomed into a chaos of blue lightning around her hands; the sound of it was of the Heavens itself, like a scream stolen from the throat of an angel. They were excruciatingly heavy, like boulders of granite, as she lifted them above her then pushed them together in one great clatter of magic and power and fury. The clap of the Maker himself echoed above the battlegrounds as it came down upon the demon, caging it in blinding blue light, and the demon bellowed as the lightning shredded through it. Then she was upon it, sinking the blade of the staff into its guts and felling it. She looked to the man and the air shook with thunder as she took in his face. His eyes touched her skin like hot iron. 

She sealed the rift. This time, the power of the mark felt like a possession of her body as it flew from her hand and lifted her from the ground. The apostate spoke to her again, but she could not hear clearly. The world was pulsing in her ears. The man with the red cloak approached and spoke to the Seeker; there was a familiarity between the two. He looked at Evelyn.

“I hope they’re right about you,” she managed to make out from the movement of his mouth. 

There was nothing to say back. She merely nodded. The man watched her, his eyes soft now. As did the others. She felt her hair still lifted like a curtain from her shoulders as the remnants of magic in the air whispered to her. The man turned back, clapped the Seeker on her shoulder, and rushed to the side of a hobbling man. And they were moving again, rushing forward to the breach, and into the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Seeker spoke of what happened as Evelyn walked past the burnt husk of human bodies still alight with fire. Maker, _had_ she done this? Was she capable of such carnage? She couldn’t stomach the answer. 

“Just tell me what to do,” she said, turning to the Seeker. 

There was something unfamiliar in the air, something that was reaching out to close its fist around her magic. It glowed from the fallen walls of the temple in lattices of crystal. It would have been beautiful had it not been singing to Evelyn, in the language of something arcane and starving. 

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” came the voice of the dwarf.

New voices began speaking. They surrounded her as if being spoken in her own head. She heard her own. 

“That was your voice! Most Holy called out to you. But…” the Seeker looked devastated.

The Seeker began demanding answers, clasping Evelyn by her shoulders and shaking her. Evelyn had no answers. She pushed the Seeker’s hands away. The anchor cracked and the breach belched demons down upon them. 

When she awoke, a scream rose up in her throat. There was a bed beneath her. She was in a room and a fire burned in the hearth. An elven woman stood before her with sheer terror in her eyes.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” she cried. The sound barely made it out of her mouth. 

“Why are you afraid?” it came out sharp and suspicious. Evelyn didn’t mean for it to. 

“That’s wrong, isn’t it,” the woman wailed, “I said the wrong thing.”

She fell to her knees and Evelyn was dumbfounded.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.” 

Evelyn wished to comfort the woman, bring her up from her knees, but it felt impossible to grab onto any sense of reality. One moment, a chain hurled from the hand of a demon and it seared her skin. Next, a woman collapses at her feet. She couldn’t manage to utter a single sound.

“I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve awakened. She said ‘at once’!”

Evelyn moved towards her, extending her hand to the woman to help her to her feet, but the woman scrambled up and away from her. 

“At once, she said! In the Chantry!” 

Maker, _what_ was going on? 

As she made for the door, she was met with a line of soldiers and civilians alike—arms clasped against their chests. Their heads were bowed. They bow to a mage? Evelyn felt the urge to sprint straight out of the gates that she saw to the right of her, leading out into the Frostbacks wilderness, and not turn back. She would dig the mark out of her hand. Scar her face in disguise. Whatever the Maker had fated for her, she rejected it. Had she not felt fear cripple her as she stood in the wake of that massive demon who had fallen from the breach? Whatever was ahead, Evelyn was not strong enough. 

But as if Andraste was guiding her, Evelyn watched the Chantry grow closer and closer to her with each weighted step she made through the snow. The line of people continued on; a few whispered of her. A Chantry sister spoke to her, _Go in peace, Herald of Andraste._ Evelyn, the Herald of Andraste? Her eyes began to tear from the sheer frustration of emerging into this new world with no knowledge of it. Why had the elven woman looked so _scared_ of her? Why had she run from her? 

As she walked the main hall of the Chantry, she felt some semblance of comfort. It reminded her of the Tower; saturated in the warm light of candles and smelling of old tomes. It held the same kind of atmosphere, quiet and reverent. She couldn’t stop the sudden shudder of breath that seized her lungs. When she first arrived to the Circle, she felt so desperate to leave. Evelyn plotted for days, writing her plans down in the margins of books that had been long neglected and overlooked, and watching the rotations of Templars. But she was only a child, wasn’t she? Still, she made an attempt that was quickly foiled by Templars. They laughed as she bruised her fists against their armor in rage of her capture. They brought her to the Senior Enchanter Lydia for punishment but the enchantress merely smiled down at her. _Your cleverness impresses me, little one,_ she had said, _But you must temper yourself._ Maker, what she would give to be sitting in the Enchanter’s library now—lost in her familiar world of tomes and magic and research. Fondly, she remembered the small figure of the ptarmigan that Lydia had gifted her which sat at the corner of her desk. The ptarmigan: the tiny bird who carried the Mountain-Father’s heart back to him though she was mocked for her size and meekness by the sparrow, vulture, and albatross. The ptarmigan persevered against the biting mountain winds and rolled the heart, little by little, through valleys, cliffs, and mountain passes. The memory sparked a small ember of courage in Evelyn’s heart. 

At the end of the hall, she heard angry voices coming from behind a great mahogany door. The Seeker’s voice was sharp as it rose up over the condescending tone of the man who had met them at the forward camp, the Chancellor who had eyed her with disdain. Rather than entering, she waited for a moment to listen to the conversation.

“I do not believe she is guilty,” the Seeker said.

“The prisoner failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way!”

If the Seeker did not think her guilty, what did this mean? Was she free to go? Could she return back home? Then she scolded herself for letting the hope grow too strong. So long as this mark laid in her palm, she would not be returning back to the Tower. The argument continued, but Evelyn opened the door and the conversation ceased. The Chancellor called for the guards to chain her and Evelyn instinctually backed up into the wall, her hand coming forward in an open palm to protect herself. The anchor lit up in the room in a flash of green. He took a step back, fear crossing his face, as did the others in the room for a moment. Evelyn did not care. She would not be a prisoner again; let them fear her. 

But the Seeker did not. She waived her head scornfully at the man in dismissal of his comment.

“Disregard that,” she said to the soldiers, “And leave us.”

A few angry comments were exchanged as the soldiers left the room but she was not listening. The Chancellor was watching with unfiltered loathing of her, of her kind. 

“So her survival,” he spat, pointing his crooked finger at her, “that _thing_ on her—all a coincidence?”

“If my life would bring back the dead, then you may take it from me now, Chancellor,” Evelyn seethed, the anger in her voice barely contained in a whisper, and he scoffed, throwing his arms up. 

“Chancellor, the Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour,” Cassandra said, breaking the silence.

“Though all before me is shadow..,” Evelyn said without thinking. It was reflexive, a verse that she would repeat to herself over and over during many hours of prayer at the Tower. Though she meant it, she did not mean to speak. The feeling of eyes on her made her skin crawl; she did not wish to draw more attention to herself. 

The intensity of the conversation continued to escalate but Evelyn felt a familiar dissociation wash over her. Even as the Seeker backed the Chancellor into the wall and pointed her glove finger into his chest, she looked to the room around her. There was the woman from the forward camp, the hooded Orelisian woman, and she was watching the scene between them with an expressionless face. Another woman stood to her right, in a silk garb of gold and navy. Her nose had a beautiful bend to it, Evelyn noted. Antivan? She looked appalled as the Seeker continued to berate the man beneath her finger. Then there was the man from the charge, with his arms folded across his chest, and he was watching Evelyn. His expression was curious, with his head leaned slightly to the right, as though he was reading her. It disarmed her for a moment, as he was the first to look at her as though she was not a sack of blasting powder over a flame, yet he held himself with the rigidness of a Templar. When she met his eyes, he did not look away. Shamefully, she did, casting her eyes down to the table that lay between them. 

“You know what this is, Chancellor,” the Seeker shouted, slamming down a tome onto the table. The symbol on it was familiar to Evelyn; it was the symbol of the Inquisition, “A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the Chancellor cried, coming towards the door behind Evelyn. He stood in front of her for a moment and she could feel his breath on her. The look of uninhibited disgust remained on his face as he looked her up and down with a grimace. Evelyn put her arm to his shoulder.

“Spite ate away all that was good, kind, and loving,” Evelyn spoke, “Till nothing was left but the spite itself.”

His look flared with unbridled anger as his mouth fell open and he pushed her hand away. 

“Walk in His light, Chancellor” Evelyn continued, interrupting him, and stepping aside from the door. 

The Chancellor clipped her with his shoulder as he made to leave, mumbling. The Orlesian woman eyed her with what seemed to be a small smirk turning at the corner of her mouth. 

“The Canticle of Maferath,” she murmured with praise, “Very good.”

“You are Andrastian?” the Seeker asked, her face still flushed from anger. 

Evelyn only nodded her head and the Seeker’s wrinkle between her eyebrows softened.

Discussion began of the Breath and Evelyn was relieved to begin piecing together the gaps in her memory from their talking. She was unable to close it, but both the hole in the sky and her mark were now stable. That granted her some relief, though she would go to the apostate later, as he seemed to know much more about it. Her ignorance of the mark was not acceptable; she would need to write to Senior Enchanter Lydia soon to discuss it. 

“You’ve met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces,” the Seeker said, motioning to the man in the corner. 

“It was...only for a moment on the field,” he began. Evelyn noted the hesitation. “I’m pleased you survived.”

The Seeker, Cassandra, preceded with her introductions: Lady Josephine Montilyet, ambassador, and the spymaster, Leliana. Evelyn reluctantly looked away from the Commander, who was still regarding her with that curious expression, but he had moved slightly from the light of the candles obscuring his face. Lady Josephine demystified her new title as Herald though Evelyn bristled at it. She was not deserving of anything in Andraste’s name; it was blasphemy. Then, Cassandra spoke again of the Inquisition; the book remained on the table where she had slammed it during her dispute with the Chancellor.

“I will help you,” Evelyn said simply and it took the Seeker by surprise.

There was no reason for the woman to continue; Evelyn had resigned herself to this commitment the second that the pain of the mark brought her to the ground as the breech is the sky bellowed. Though that wasn’t entirely the truth of it, was it? Yes, autonomy over her life had been taken from her the moment that she stepped through the doors to the sound of the Divine’s distress. It was taken from her once before when her parents threw her on a horse in the thick of night with a Templar to take her away. Regardless of the circumstances, Evelyn committed herself to the Circle shortly after her attempted escape. She had realized it was her chance to atone, to prove that she could discipline herself. As of late, though, she grew impatient with the work. What good was it if it could not leave? She had never dared voice her frustration to the Senior Enchanter Lydia, but she had started to wonder if there was a chance she could go back out into the world. To help. To teach. To fight. To lend herself to something bigger. And that is how she had felt on the battlefield, larger than life itself. 

“That is all we ask,” the Spymaster replied, clasping her hands in front of her, and she regarded Evelyn thoughtfully though it felt almost like pity. 


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks had passed since Evelyn had agreed to stay with the Inquisition and seal the Breach. It seemed as though she awoke every morning with a new ache in her body from the days of hard rides to the Hinterlands and sleeping on the ground; she was not used to this constant moving and going and fighting. She could see her body taking new form; the softness of her figure had become curved with muscle in her calves and shoulders. Her mind felt different, too; whereas her days were once consumed in tomes, now they were just saturated with talking. At the Circle, Evelyn only ever spoke to Senior Enchanter Lydia, a few other mages who were friendly with her, and the Tranquils. Evelyn was sure that she had spoken to more people in the last three days than she did her entire time at the Circle. It was unfamiliar to her—having her mouth move so much throughout the day. Sometimes, her jaw was sore when she finally managed to retire for the evening. When she could, she spent the evenings with Varric just so she could sit and listen to his stories; he never seemed to mind her quietness. Most nights, though, she was in Josephine’s office or the council room pouring over maps, letters, and scrolls. She was exhausted.

Evelyn had come to quite like Josephine, even with the Antivan’s constant chattering. She was very warm to Evelyn compared to the other advisors. It wasn’t that they were cold to her exactly, but they hardly smiled or laughed in her presence as the Ambassador did. Evelyn and Leliana had only had one conversation alone together, and Evelyn was regretful of it. The Spymaster spoke of her grief of the loss of Divine Justinia and Evelyn had tried to comfort her. But Evelyn did not know much of being spoken to so candidly—or of comforting another. Leliana did give what appeared to be a shadow of a smile last they spoke, though. 

Evelyn spoke very rarely to the Commander, and secretly, she was grateful for it. He was always watching her, his eyes the color of tea with too much cream, and it flustered her. On a few occasions, they were the first to arrive at the council room and she would nervously concern herself with a stack of papers as he did the same but seemingly much more at ease than Evelyn. 

At night, when most of Haven snuffed out its candles, Evelyn would lay awake processing the day deep into the hours of morning: Josephine’s gracefulness as she moved between rooms, the glint of Leliana’s eyes as they moved across letters, the Commander’s impossibly large shadow from the dim candlelight in the council room. Eventually, Evelyn would dare think of herself and all the ways in which this place felt like it held her with calipers over a flame; like metal being beat into a sword with a hammer. The _constant_ talking alone was changing the pattern of her thoughts, the way she looked at things. Before, at the Circle, she very rarely had to think about how she felt as it didn’t matter; the questions asked of her there very rarely had to do with anything other than her studies. At Haven, she was quickly finding that she was stumped when asked certain questions by the advisors. _What do you think, Herald? How would you like to reply to the Duke, Herald? Do you like your new horse, Herald?_

Evelyn had one particularly distressing conversation with Solas the previous night. She had gone to him, wanting answers of the mark, and they sat together for the evening talking of his travels, the Fade, the Breach, and magic. The philosophies that the apostate held were absolutely fascinating to Evelyn and she even felt a thrill when they began to discuss blood magic—something that she would have never been able to even breath of at the Circle. She had wanted to sit with him all night and consume all of the knowledge that had been kept from her; she did not mind then how her jaw ached. It was wrong of her, perhaps, but she could not stop asking him questions and he gladly answered—pleased with her curiosity. But then he asked her a question that had her quickly taking her leave, much to his disappointment. _Truthfully, I am surprised that we are speaking of such things, Herald,_ he had said, _Did you find the Circle oppressive?_

As soon as the sun had risen up over the Frostback, after a sleepless night of that question clattering in her brain, Josephine called the Herald to her office. 

“Herald, just a moment of your time,” the Ambassador said, her eyes not pulling from the letter that was before her, “I have some questions regarding your title.”

Evelyn felt the statement move up her body like a crack of ice. 

“There is nothing to discuss,” she said flatly.

“You are a Trevelyan, yes?” Josephine asked.

“Yes,” Evelyn said, flatly again, and much more curt.

Josephine looked up from her letter at the Herald and frowned. 

“Have I caused offense, Herald?” the Ambassador asked and Evelyn could hear the well-meaning in her voice but it did not matter.

“No.”

“I…” Josephine began, taken aback, then turned back to her letter, “Well, we will disregard the matter, then. Thank you for your time, Herald.”

Evelyn quickly left the room although Mother Giselle called out after her. _Temper yourself, Evelyn,_ she kept repeating to herself. _Temper yourself_. As she made for the door of the Chantry, it opened into her with a rather forceful push as the Commander entered with a bundle of papers. 

“Oh, Herald, my apologies.”

Evelyn brushed past him, wishing to get back to her quarters as quickly as possible, and said nothing back to him. He ogled after her, noting the tension in the way that she carried herself as she passed the requisition tent and down the stairs. 

“Ah, Cullen,” came Josephine’s voice as she stood in the doorway of her office, “You have brought my reports?”

“Yes,” he said, turning quickly to make his way down the hall to place them on her desk, “Any other matters?”

Josephine hesitated for a moment.

“Minaeve, would you leave us for a moment?” 

The elven woman nodded her head and quickly left the room as Cullen looked down with concern at the Ambassador.

“What are your thoughts on the Herald, Commander?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

“I…” he began, unsure of how to answer the question.

“I do not mean to be inappropriate, of course,” she said quickly, noting the Commander’s discomfort, “or to gossip.”

“I suppose that I find her...competent.”

It was the truth; Cullen did find the Herald more than capable of handling Inquisition matters. She seemed to make decisions with much as much calculation as intuition. When they were the first two to arrive to counsel, she was always shuffling through papers intently ensuring that she had gleaned everything of importance—so intently that she rarely spoke to him as they waited. Truthfully, he did find her aloof and intense but it did not bother him; rather, it made him curious of her. He rather admired how deeply committed she seemed to the Inquisition.

“Competent.” Josephine said, nearly groaning in frustration, “That is all?”

“What is this about, Josephine?”

Josephine sighed and moved back to behind her desk.

“The Herald is from a rather prominent Ostwick family. I was hoping that they may lend support to the Inquisition, but the Herald would not discuss it with me.”

“And?” 

Josephine narrowed her eyes at the Commander.

“It is _important_ ,” she said, with some impatience, “that we garner the sympathy of nobility where we can, Commander, but the Herald seems to align with your feelings on the matter.”

“I cannot say that I am not glad to hear it,” Cullen laughed as Josephine gave him another exasperated sigh. 

“That is all,” Josephine dismissed him, beginning to unfurl the twine from around the papers that Cullen had brought her, “Thank you, Cullen.”

As she sat beside the hearth of her quarters, Evelyn tried to calm herself as both Solas’ and Josephine’s question worked at her like a knife. For the last few weeks at Haven, she began to settle into her life—albeit uncomfortably—and began to feel something of the glacier in her chest being picked away at every time that she managed to do something good like close a rift or find food for the Hinterland refugees. Now, she saw the folly in thinking that there were any deeds big enough to atone for her misdoings. At the Circle, she spent every night praying at the statue of Andraste. Here, how often did she pray? When she thought of it? Sometimes when they found rest for the night as they traveled through the Hinterlands or now as she sat so ashamed of herself? 

She remembered the first time she prayed to the Maker with her own prayer and not one that she had been taught. It was her first night at the Circle after she wept bitterly for her life, her family—her brother. She was but a child. Her brother had been but a child, too. They had been playing sticks. She did not mean for it to happen—she didn’t. Maker, it was an accident. He cheated and she got angry. So angry. The magic came through her like a gale. Hiram could not even scream; the magic took hold of his throat. It threw like a bale of hay. _It_ , the magic—not her. It was not her. It wasn’t. 

But it was. She and her magic were the same living thing, inseparable from each other. When the servant found them, Evelyn uncrying and cradling her brother’s limp body, he hissed, _Maker save us, you’re a blighted mage, Evelyn._ Then, when the healer came, he said, _He yet breathes, but we do not know what is next._ Yet her parents looked at her as though she had killed him: her mother weeping and father stoic. She sat beside the fire in their sitting room waiting for someone to come hold her and pet her hair and let her cry, but no one came. The next person to touch her would be the Templar as he sat her on the back of his horse and took off into the night. She came to the Circle, heart shattered and terrified; she had tried to flee. Senior Enchanter Lydia found her so deeply seated in that hurt and said, _Temper yourself._ So, she did. Within the safe and watching arms of the Circle, she became something different—something steeled away. She would not let herself forget why. 


	3. Chapter 3

A fortnight passed as fast as a coin flip for Evelyn after her conversation with Josephine. It seemed that she was being pulled in every direction after Val Royeux and her days were passing by in a flurry. There were so many new people milling about; she knew only a few of them: Sera, The Iron Bull, Blackwall, and Enchanter Vivienne. Aside from the journeying back to Haven that she had taken with the, she knew them very little. Evelyn had the desire to learn more about them, their thoughts, and vision for the Inquisition, where they saw themselves in it, but there had been no time. The moment that her feet were back on the familiar, stone-hard snow of Haven, Cassandra was preparing them for another venture into the wilds of Thedas. One conversation had been managed with Vivienne, though, and Evelyn could determine her thoughts on the enchantress. She had seemed pleased to know of Evelyn’s place with the Ostwick Circle, yet she eyed Evelyn with the same haughty appraisal that all nobles do and it made Evelyn squirm. 

Evelyn had wanted to speak with her again to hear her thoughts on the rebellion before visiting Redcliffe, but there had not been a chance. Besides, after what they had witnessed there, Evelyn did not know if siding with the mages was wise. Prior to Redcliffe, the advisors had begun to grow impatient with her and her inability to decide between mages or Templars. Evelyn did not think it fair to not meet with Grand Enchantress Fiona before making a decision, and she was glad for it now as were her advisors. Now, though, the Templars...Evelyn did not feel particularly confident with that either. 

All of this was rumbling in Evelyn’s head when her stomach followed suit, bringing her out of her thoughts. She had been too caught up with testing staff grips and blades with Harritt that she had not made it to the Chantry in time to eat. Due to meet yet again with her advisors, she made off for the mess to see what she could manage to scarf down before another long night. 

She was greeted brightly by the woman who oversaw the Inquisition’s pantry, Hattie, and the woman quickly began plating some meat and cheeses for Evelyn.

“I’ve been worried about you, dear,” Hattie spoke as she was cutting from a wheel of cheese, “I hardly see you in Haven now.”

Evelyn had met the woman during her first week at Haven after a sleepless night turned her stomach over in hunger and she came to the mess before first light to see what kind of breakfast she could scrape together. Hattie had already been hard at work, bossing around some Chantry sisters. She had taken a quick note of Evelyn and merely pushed her down into a chair at the table. _Just sit, Herald. You_ ** _will_ **_have a proper breakfast._ Evelyn took quickly to her; Hattie made no fuss about the Herald. She was a hungry belly no different than anyone else. 

“I’m alright, Hattie,” Evelyn replied, her mouth beginning to water as Hattie spread salted butter across a slice of rye, “I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to come in the mornings.”

“What utter and absolute nonsense, Evelyn,” Hattie scolded, placing the plate in front of Evelyn and sitting across from her. 

“How are things?” Evelyn managed around a mouthful of bread.

“As well as they can be, I reckon. Your Ambassador got me a new merchant and she has _fruit._ I could have cried holding that crate of apples. In fact, I did. Just right sobbed all over them.”

Evelyn laughed as Hattie grinned at her from across the table. The kitchen was warm, smelling of spices, and a great pot was happily boiling over the fire. It reminded her of the days that she spent sitting on sacks of flour in her family’s kitchen waiting for the house cook to slip her sweetmeats until her mother came shooing her out. Those memories were some of the few that didn’t hurt to remember. The two women sat together talking until Evelyn had finished her plate.

“More, dear?” Hattie asked, taking it from her.

“Meeting,” Evelyn breathed, leaning back into her chair and closing her eyes for a moment, reveling in her fullness.

A towel snapped at her and she sat up with a start as Hattie cackled, throwing the towel back over her shoulder.

“Get on then,” she teased, “I would just hate for that handsome Commander to come looking for you.”

Evelyn tried to hide her blush as she slipped out the door. 

When Evelyn opened the door to the council room, she was met immediately with raised voices. 

“Ambassador, you read the reports. The mages have been compromised. We must seek the aid of the Templars,” Cullen nearly shouted.

“After their show in Val Royeaux,” Leliana replied, holding her hand to her chin in deep thought, “I am not so sure of the Templars, Commander.”

The Commander looked up to Evelyn and Hattie’s words haunted her as the light from the table candle contoured the hard line of his jaw. 

“Herald, we must make our decision,” he said, his voice softening, but his jaw still tense. 

“I agree with Leliana,” she nodded, “What happened at Val Royeaux was concerning.”

“Though I do not believe the Inquisition should align with the mages, the Lord Seeker’s behavior was alarming,” said Cassandra, each word weighted by her Nevarran accent. 

“With respect, Cassandra, abuse of power should come as no surprise,” Evelyn rebuffed, “Especially in regards to the Order."

"What is your meaning?" Cassandra said curtly, bristling at Evelyn's criticism. 

"Are you upset?" Evely replied coolly, "I speak the truth. After the events at Kirkwall, much was finally brought to light; you cannot question that."

Cassandra's eyes briefly flashed to Cullen and Evelyn's eyes followed. It seemed a shadow sat over his face; his eyes were dark.

“You should not prescribe the corruption of Knight-Commander Meredith to all Templars," Cassandra said carefully though her voice was still hard.

"Shouldn't I?" Evelyn questioned, "It was not Meredith alone who laid waste to Kirkwall and killed innocents."

"But there were Templars who refused to follow her command! There were Templars who turned against their Order to protect the citizens of Kirkwall!" Cassandra argued.

"And how exactly did it come to that? The Templars had a choice long before that night. Complicity is its own corruption, Seeker. Did we not see that at Val Royeaux?"

Cassandra seemed to deflate at Evelyn's words though her face was still red and her eyes narrowed. Evelyn did not care if the Seeker was unhappy with her words. Nothing she had said was unsubstantiated; let her boil in her anger.

"We are making contact with the mages, then?" Leliana asked, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"No," Evelyn replied and the whole room looked to her in confusion, even Leliana, "Regardless of my criticisms, whatever is happening in Redcliffe does not bode well and I fear there is not enough time to intervene. We will close the Breach with the Templars. Make your contacts, Josephine."

“At once, Herald,” Josephine said, already putting pen to paper, seemingly relieved to have a task that pulled her attention away from the way that Cassandra was glowering at the Herald. 

The room then shifted all at once. Cassandra and Leliana came to the map to begin discussing routes, Josephine sat to begin madly scribbling at her board, and Cullen quickly brushed past Evelyn as he made for the door. She had caught a glimpse of his face and did not know what to make of the almost devastating look that she found there. 

"Oh, Commander Cull-," Josephine called after him. But he was gone.

"Herald," Cassandra began, still looking down at the map with Leliana, "How much do you know of our Commander? How he came to the Inquisition?"

Evelyn folded her arms defensively, suddenly aware that she did not know, "I know that he _was_ a Templar. That is all."

Cassandra then looked up to Evelyn and a look of sadness had replaced her anger, "He was Knight-Captain of Kirkwall."

Several hours after they had concluded their discussions, Evelyn still felt like her breath had been taken from her at Cassandra's words. Evelyn did not regret voicing herself on the actions of Templars, but there was some complicated and painful stirring in her chest. What she spoke was true; she did believe that complicity was its own corruption. If the Commander had not stood against his Knight-Commander prior to the events of the rebellion, then he was guilty of it. The thought of that, though, pushed the weight on her chest further down. Could she be so harsh? Had she not parts of her past that marked her heart like a stain? She did not know the Commander: his past, his present, his guilt. Yet her sympathy clashed fiercely with her sense of justice. She would not allow herself to make exceptions for the Commander, no matter how softly his tea-colored eyes met her under the light of candles, but she would be a hypocrite to hold him eternally culpable. She wished for forgiveness, did she not? Evelyn knew what it was like to hold yourself to a flame for years, wishing to be absolved of guilt. She quickly left her quarters to make for the Commander's tent though she did not know what she would say. Evelyn just wanted so badly to speak with him, perhaps apologize. The way that he had looked when he left the council room, it would keep her awake all night; she had to see him. 

The light had just started receding itself back into the mountains as she made her way through the cold, blue light of another Haven nightfall. Though consumed in her thoughts, Evelyn felt calmed by the beauty of this place. The great army of firs, spruces, and pines stood as one shadow in the distance. She could hear the laugh of the small group of children who lived at Haven as Varric told them stories around his fire; the bard's singing came gently in fragments from the tavern. The air smelled of snow, metal, smoke, and wet earth. For a moment, she was overwhelmed by it all and how it had begun to feel like home. Evelyn would sometimes walk to the outskirts of Haven, collecting elf root or simply wanting to get away, and marvel at how both foreign and familiar this place felt to her. She would sit beneath trees to watch nugs graze and play together as ptarmigans hopped at the hooves of the druffalo. Yes, she had come to love this place a little.

As she approached the Commander's tent, she was suddenly struck by an incredible awkwardness. Should she announce herself? Should she just enter? There's no knocking on tents. Before she nearly turned around, her face burning, the Commander emerged from the tent and nearly collided with her.

"Oh, Herald," he sputtered.

"Commander, hello, erm," Evelyn said, shifting uncomfortably on her feet, "If you're busy..."

"Well, actually," he said, looking equally as unsettled, "I was coming to speak with you."

His face seemed less shadowed now but he looked incredibly tired.

"As was I," Evelyn replied.

"Ah," the Commander nodded softly, "Would you like to walk with me?"

Evelyn nodded and they began to move together along the trail that led to the lake, neither of them speaking at first.

"I-," they both began at the same time and Evelyn nearly burned in embarrassment as his eyes fell upon her. 

"It's quite nice at this hour, isn't it?" he said, recovering from the moment quickly, and looking away from her.

"Yes," she said but did not know what else to say. 

Somewhere in the treeline, a ptarmigan warbled. The densely packed snow crushed harshly underneath their boots.

"You were Knight-Captain at Kirkwall?" Evelyn asked suddenly, the delaying of the conversation becoming excruciating to her. 

The two came to the small dock that came out over Haven's lake and the wind softly moved Evelyn's hair around her shoulders with a cold but mild breeze.

"I was," the Commander murmured.

"I am not apologizing for my words earlier, Commander," Evelyn began, trying to make it sound gentle but stern, "but I do know what it is like to feel unforgivable. I will not act as though I know your guilt. That is yours. It is not for me to assume."

He looked to her and his face was soft, thoughtful. It was hard for her to keep looking at him. 

"You said nothing that was not the truth," he replied, turning to look out across the lake. "I saw what Meredith was becoming yet I did not stand against her until the end."

Evelyn nodded and a silence fell between the two again.

"I must be honest with you, Herald," the Commander continued and he stared down into the water, "Before the Inquisition, I was a man consumed by fear. I supported Meredith. I did not see mages as people."

Evelyn felt her skin prickle with a small fear at his words, "And now?"

The look on his face as he turned to her was that of a man who had just been dragged through the streets. 

"I am no longer that man," he murmured, "for whatever that is worth to you."

Evelyn measured him, standing beside her looking so incredibly broken, and her heart softened though her face remained hard. She turned to the fading Frostbacks, the sun making soft work of their ridges, and thought of all the ways that things take different shape: mountains in the dark, the moon when it came rising over Haven each night, birds when they take flight. 

"I think that you are a good man," Evelyn said, "I hope that you someday believe that too."

Unexpectedly, Evelyn felt her eyes get tight for a moment as though tears meant to push forward. She leveled her gaze onto the soft pink sun to contain herself. 

"I hope that too," the Commander nearly whispered as they both looked out onto the last breath of the sunset, "Though it is always hardest to forgive ourselves, isn't it?"

Evelyn slept soundly that night and without dreams. 


	4. Chapter 4

Cullen woke much earlier than usual with a terrible rumbling in his stomach. It wasn't often that he was hungry these days, and the feeling felt rather alien to him. He readied himself quickly and hoped that the Inquisition’s cooks were preparing for breakfast at this hour as another angry garble ripped up from his empty stomach. The mess hall, if it could be called that, operated out of one of the empty buildings beside the Chantry—entirely too small to accommodate the growing Inquisition forces much longer. As Cullen approached, he heard singing; the voice was rich and very much Ferelden. The sound gave him pause for a moment and a very old aching rose up in him. Though the Inquisition had brought him back to Ferelden, it no longer felt as familiar to him, especially here in the Frostbacks. It had occurred to him that perhaps nowhere would ever feel home enough for him after the events of the last ten years, but this song suddenly roused a tentative hope in him. It was a familiar song, one that his father had sung to himself as he cleaned out the shoes of the family horse or when he rooted for potatoes in the garden. 

_“One last stream to cross, one last hill to wander._

_Until I reach the love I’m longing to see._

_O, I know she is there, daisies in her hair,_

_Waiting by the chantry to marry me.”_

The Commander approached the door quietly, the smell of cooking food nearly intoxicating but not wanting to disrupt the singing with his entry. It opened without a groan or squeak and two women worked in the small pantry of the building as they prepared breakfast. The woman singing was short and round with a chaotic mess of red curls seemingly about to burst from the twine that held it together.

_“Running through the streets, only silence follows._

_Elven arrows sunk into the old ash tree._

_O, I know she’s there, daisies in her hair,_

_Waiting by the chantry to marry me.”_

The singing woman then turned with a platter of crushed oats and nuts prepared for the large pot sitting above the fire bubbling with a mix of milk and water. Before Cullen could make an announcement of himself, the woman shrieked but managed to keep most of the contents of her plate from the floor. The other woman came rushing out.

“Hattie, what in the Maker?” she began quickly then stared wide-eyed at Cullen, “Oh, Commander, hello.”

The Herald stood with a dirtied apron sitting on top of her tunic with a dull cutting knife and apple in hand. Before he could manage any words to reply, the cook, Hattie, poured the oats and nuts into the pot then began violently swatting at him with a towel.

“Sit, Commander, sit.”

Cullen looked to the Herald who looked amused but then gave a serious nod to the chair beside the table. He sat immediately. 

“Terribly sorry, Commander! But what a fright you gave me! You should know better than to sneak up like that! But you must be hungry, dear. I didn’t see you at dinner last night. Sit tight, now. My, you are quite tall aren’t you; you look ridiculous in that tiny chair. I’ll have something shortly. Do you like porridge? I have porridge. I also have some dried meats and fruits! Or bread? Oh, Evelyn, cut me some of that pork belly for the Commander!”

“That won’t be necessary,” the Commander said quickly, overwhelmed by the energy of the cook as she began furiously searching the kitchen. “Some porridge is fine, thank you.”

The woman huffed but looked pleased with herself as she prepared a bowl for him and set it in front of him. It smelled surprisingly good, like cinnamon and clove. Cullen wasn’t used to having the quality of food that the Inquisition fed him. The last few posts were abysmal in terms of cooks. He looked to the pantry where the Herald cleaned a knife between the fabric of her apron.

“Hattie, more apples or no?” she asked and Cullen was trying to make sense of the scene. 

“Put the rest in the pot, dear!” Hattie called back as she placed a bowl in front of Cullen, “Then come eat yourself.”

Evelyn came from the pantry, poured the chopped apples into the pot, then removed her apron, and sat beside the Commander. She was painfully aware of the nervous pace of her breath as the Commander watched her with curious amusement. Hattie placed a bowl of porridge in front of her then squinted her eyes at Evelyn then the Commander then back to Evelyn. 

“I’ll be back shortly,” she said suddenly and the Commander glanced at Evelyn as she jumped in her seat, “Got to wake that minxy girl who keeps stealing my cooking wine. She’s quite good at catching rabbits, you know? 

With that, Hattie hustled out of the kitchen to head to the tavern, leaving Evelyn and the Commander sitting in silence in the dark, warm room together as a nightingale began softly singing to the breaking dawn. It felt surprisingly comfortable. 

“Was she talking about Sera?” he asked, breaking the silence, with a laugh. 

Evelyn gave a smile and nodded, spooning another bite of porridge into her mouth.

Curiosity got the better of him and he turned closer to Evelyn.

“Do you always help with breakfast?”

“Sometimes, when I can,” the Herald replied, settling her spoon into her bowl, “Don’t tell Josephine. I’m sure that she would be mortified that the Herald gets bossed around by the Inquisition’s cook.”

Cullen chuckled, “I quite like Hattie, I think.”

“We’re lucky to have her. With so many now, she keeps everyone fed,” then she gave an anxious but teasing smile to Cullen who realized his mouth was immodestly filled with porridge, “And keeps note of who doesn’t come to dinner.”

The silence enveloped them again as Evelyn returned to the pot to stir it. Cullen quickly finished his bowl and Evelyn collected it to refill it. 

“Oh, Herald, that’s quite—” he said quickly, standing up but nearly toppling over the table from the ridiculously tiny chair that he sat in, “Maker, these chairs.”

Evelyn stood over the pot and laughed as Cullen attempted to resettle himself at the table. The fire illuminated the stray pieces of her hair like gold.

“I insist, Commander,” she said, placing the bowl before him and taking her seat again, “Truthfully, I like this work.”

She glanced down for a moment and the smile slipped from her face for a moment.

“Cooking?” the Commander asked.

“With all that we do,” she began with hesitation, “it doesn’t feel tangible enough for me sometimes. But this, helping Hattie, making sure everyone is fed, it feels real. Something that I know for certain that I have done well. I...” 

Evelyn caught herself from continuing that sentence, not wanting to be so candid with the Commander. Truthfully, she hated that she couldn’t yet determine what good she was doing for the Inquisition. The decisions that she made—were they the right ones? Was she truly helping as she so desperately wanted to? They were impossible questions—ones that Evelyn knew that only history could eventually determine. 

“Evelyn,” he began, gently prodding her to continue, and her name falling softly from him. Then, both of their eyes flew open in surprise that he had said it. 

The Commander began to stutter an apology for the inappropriate intimacy just as the door burst open. 

“You’ll eat after you catch me some rabbits, you infuriating girl!” Hattie yelled following Sera into the kitchen, “They’ll all scamper off into the woods as soon as HIS soldiers start marching around!”

Hattie jabbed a finger in Cullen’s direction and the incredulous look on his face forced a laugh from Evelyn that she quickly smothered with her hand. 

“You’re the WORST,” Sera yelled back then whirled on Cullen and Evelyn, “Tell her she has to feed me!”

“Here!” Hattie bellowed from the pantry and violently chucking a loaf of spice bread and a muslin bag at Sera, “I’ll fry you some pork once I have my RABBITS!”

“She’s always yelling rabbits, rabbits, rabbits!” Sera continued at an incredibly distressing volume, “You knick some shit wine and then it’s rabbits forever! PISS OFF.”

“FRIED PORK!” Hattie shouted as she rustled loudly in a drawer.

“THAT’S MY FAVORITE!” Sera cried, clutching the spice bread to her chest. 

“I KNOW!” Hattie slammed the drawer shut and came waddling into the kitchen with a cleaver in hand. 

“UGH!” Sera said with a defeated cry followed by an absolutely terrifying glare towards Evelyn and Cullen as she stormed out of the kitchen. Hattie thundered back into the pantry. 

The two sat deathly quiet for a moment as Hattie continued cursing Sera loudly. 

“I believe that I will take my leave now,” the Commander started, “Angry Fereldan with a kitchen knife…I’d rather take my chances with a rift.”

The awkwardness of him using her name still hung in the air, but Evelyn laughed at the Commander’s unexpected humor.

“Wise choice,” she nodded. 

Cullen stood up then turned for a moment, hesitating in the doorway.

“Erm,” he cleared his throat, “Hattie?”

“WHAT?” 

Evelyn looked quickly back and forth between the Commander uncomfortably standing at the door and Hattie coming out of the pantry—her hair completely undone from its twine. 

“You have a lovely voice,” he murmured with all the confidence of a Chantry boy then quickly exited the kitchen. 

Hattie’s anger over the row with Sera immediately dissipated and she turned beaming to Evelyn. 

“Now,” she said graciously, “What a dear!”

Evelyn laughed at Hattie’s pleasure from the Commander’s compliment and began collecting the bowls and spoons from their breakfast. 

“And so handsome!” Hattie teased, grinning at Evelyn from the pantry.

Whatever look crossed Evelyn’s face made Hattie cackle with mirth. 

“Come now, Evelyn,” the woman said, “Sera will back with my rabbits shortly.


	5. Chapter 5

Cullen entered the counsel room to find everyone but the Herald present and immediately sensed the tension in the room. 

“Ambassador, where is the Herald?” he asked. 

Josephine smiled nervously and moved around the table for Cullen to take his usual place. 

“This is a matter that I believe is best discussed without the Herald present. For the moment, at least.”

“And what is this matter exactly? You are being vague, Josephine,” Cassandra huffed in frustration. 

“The Herald’s family,” Leliana replied, “We have received word from them.”

“It was my understanding that the Herald did not think we should seek contact,” Cullen said, annoyed that he had been called to counsel over the affairs of nobility. 

“Yes,” Josephine began quickly, “but the endorsement of a prominent Ostwick family could prove most useful. I had sent a formal invitation for a parlay between the Herald and her family to take place here at Haven...” Josephine trailed off, looking mildly uncomfortable. 

“But their response was most curious…” Leliana finished. 

Just then, the door to the room burst open and Evelyn blew like a force into the room. All conversation vacuumed into silence at her sudden intrusion. 

“Since I failed to make myself clear before, let me do so now,” Evelyn seethed and her hair breathed with static, “I am noble in title _only_. I am privy to no inheritance, land, or influence. In every regard except legal, I have been disowned by the Trevelyan family. Although they may be sympathetic to the efforts of the Inquisition, they _will not_ lend any public support of me as its Herald.”

The advisors ogled at Evelyn in her fury: Leliana seemingly measuring the Herald’s frenzied breath, Cassandra looking entirely bewildered, Josephine holding her board close to her chest, and Cullen attempting to conceal his concern for the entirely surprising burst of emotion from the Herald. 

“Josephine,” and the name came out like a crack of ice from Evelyn’s mouth causing the Ambassador to flinch, “I am aware that you have had correspondence with my brother.”

Josephine opened her mouth but only a short stutter of her sentence came out before Evelyn stopped her.

“You will cease at once.”

Evelyn took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring, and Cullen saw a shimmer in her eye as it caught the glint of flame from the candle on the table. 

“I…” her voice faltered with a heartbreaking collapse of breath, “I have and will continue to give _everything_ that I have to the Inquisition. I am prepared to lay down my life for this cause and all I have asked is that you not involve yourself with the Trevelyans.”

Her voice now came barely as a rasp as she attempted to carry herself through the last of her words. Although her resolve was shaking, her anger still rippled through the room,

“Leliana, you will take care of my distant relatives who wish to use my name to their advantage and silence them. There will be no further discussion.”

With that, she turned sharply on her heels and exited the room with a slam of the wooden door. A sudden rush of wind sounded through the door from the main hall met with a flutter of papers and a few outbursts from the Chantry sisters who loitered there. 

“I suppose that matter is settled then,” Josephine said sharply as she turned her face away from the light of the candle. 

“I suppose it is,” Leliana replied in her usual measured tone, “I will ensure that the Herald’s request is met.” 

Josephine nodded, still concealing her face, and quickly left the room. Leliana followed after her closely. 

Cassandra looked to Cullen, still incredulous to the events of the last few minutes. 

“That was most unusual behavior,” she said, every word coming as slowly as her ability to grasp what had happened. 

Cullen’s hand lifted to his neck and he shook his head. 

“Truthfully, Cassandra, we don't know her well,” he replied.

Cassandra nodded her head. 

“She is very...withholding,” she said as her lips pursed.

“Coming from you,” said Cullen, “that gives me some concern.”

Cassandra did not react to slight ribbing from the Commander, lost in thought for a moment, then turned towards the door. 

“Let us reconvene in the morning,” she said as she opened the door for the two to take their leave. 

As Cullen walked back to his tent, Varric called out to him.

“Curly! Hey, Curly!” he said, sounding almost frantic, “What the hell happened in there? Blondie came fade-stepping through here and scared half the camp.”

Cullen approached the fire next to Varric’s tent and sat beside him on the log. 

“There was a discussion of the Herald’s family and it went...poorly, to say the least.”

Varric let out a low, sympathetic whistle. 

“Nothing good ever comes from talking family,” Varric replied pensively as he crossed his arms across his chest, “I’m surprised a rift didn’t just open up over Haven. Must be a pretty sore topic for her to get so pissed about it.”

Cullen frowned. 

“She talks to you, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. But no. She likes my stories, but who doesn’t?” Varric smirked but it fell quickly to a thoughtful expression, “She doesn’t talk about herself. Ever. Hell, I don’t even know what she likes to drink.”

One of Cullen’s men soon interrupted the conversation with a report and Cullen took his leave with a nod. 

Evelyn sat stoking the fire in the abandoned shack just outside of Haven, feeling incredibly guilty about her outburst, and for now hiding from her advisors in shame. In the moment, she ignored the devastation that colored Josephine’s face as she yelled at her, but now, it left Evelyn hanging her head in her hands. Josephine, one of the few people at Haven that Evelyn felt a budding friendship with, looked crushed and Evelyn had already resolved herself to apologize at first light. The Ambassador could have never known the severity of her meddling; Evelyn had been less than generous with her family history. The crumpled letter from her father sat inside the inner pocket of her coat—a cold and condescending demand that Evelyn sees that the Inquisition’s Ambassador cease with her futile networking. Thinking of the letter again, her body immediately returned to a familiar but terrible numbness. The Circle had not been much a family to her but it sufficed yet the rejection of her by her own flesh and blood still stung so many years later. Then she thought of Hiram and a sudden sob quickly rose up in her throat. Sweet, good, and loving Hiram, who undoubtedly was eager for a chance of contact with his sister. She couldn’t bear thinking of it, of thinking of him. His support would never be deserved. 

Then the faces of her other advisors came to her. The infuriating and almost invasive gaze of the Spymaster, Cassandra’s shock at Evelyn's inability to control her anger, and the lines that creased Cullen’s forehead and around his mouth in concern. Maker, how could she come back from this? She had been so mindful to be carefully measured, to keep a heavy grip on herself to be calm and rational in the face of everything. It earned her the confidence of her advisors. Now, the image that she worked so hard to cultivate was irreparably damaged. They would not look at her the same. They may not trust her as they did before. The Herald was no better than an ill-tempered child yet carried the boon of Andraste in her palm. The embarrassment felt worse than any wave of nausea. 

Fighting down the urge to cry yet again, she picked up the lute that leaned against the leg of her chair and began softly plucking at it. The dull ache of the tough strings underneath her fingers was a welcome distraction from the ache in her chest and stomach. She searched for the familiar pattern of plucking for a song that she had been taught by one of the farmhands. It was an old soldier song, the kind to be played as a soldier walked into the Maker’s light—comforting, heartbreaking. The farmhand, Tommy, had taught her the art of playing the lute and she was never more grateful for his instruction than now, letting herself go to its familiar timbre, and calming herself in the small repertoire of songs that he had taught to her. The fire crackled merrily in its hearth and lifted her spirits gently. She would apologize first to Josephine in the morning, then to her advisors collectively during counsel. They would hopefully have grace for her infraction. She put down the lute and gave a quick prayer. Just as she resolved to head back to her own quarters, a knock came to the door. 

“Herald?” came the voice of the Commander. 

Panic rose up in Evelyn as she attempted to smooth down the frizz that had collected in her hair and press down the puffiness around her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, more curly than she meant to, “Yes, come in.”

The Commander entered and even if he took inventory of Evelyn’s sorry state, his face showed no sign of it. He carried a basket in his arms. 

“Hattie cornered me,” he said with a hint of amusement, “She said you didn’t come to dinner then demanded I ensure that you eat.”

“Oh, Hattie,” Evelyn laughed and the small smile that grew on her face felt like rain taking to dry earth, “Let us see what she has prepared, shall we?”

Commander Cullen crossed the room in a few strides to sit in the chair beside Evelyn and settled the basket between them. 

“How did you know that I’d be here?” Evelyn asked with feigned passivity as she sorted through the contents of the basket. She had discovered the shack by accident while collecting elfroot one day and considered it a secret that she wanted to keep to herself in case she ever needed solitude. It troubled her that she had been found so easily. 

“A scout saw you come this way and another reported smoke coming from the old shack.”

Evelyn felt a flush of embarrassment. Of course, Leliana kept her scouts’ eyes on the Herald at all times. She pulled a piece of bread, hard cheese, and a small knife from the basket and cut herself and the Commander a piece. For a moment, the only sound in the shack came from the hearth and the quiet chewing of their eating as they both watched the dancing embers of the fire. 

“I…” she began and the Commander looked to her quickly. Evelyn felt herself crumple as his honey-colored eyes searched her face, not enjoying the sense of vulnerability that was rising. “I plan to apologize to Josephine tomorrow, then to all of you. My conduct today was...unacceptable. It won’t happen again.”

Evelyn couldn’t stomach meeting his gaze after her words and looked back to the fire.

“You are owed an apology as well, Herald,” Cullen replied and Evelyn dared to glance at him from the corner of her eye. He was watching the fire with the same intensity as she had been. “You made it very clear that your family would not lend support. That should have been respected.”

Evelyn nodded her head and set down her piece of bread. She met the Commander’s gaze. 

“Commander, I hope that I will be able to earn back the confidence that you all had invested in me. I am sure that my outbursts today reflect poorly.”

Evelyn didn’t know what to make of the look of surprise on his face.

“Herald, if I may be frank with you,” he began, leaning forward in his chair towards her, “your anger today was surprising, yes, but I fear that you are being much too hard on yourself. Our confidence is not shaken.”

Evelyn sighed in relief and felt a knot of tension release between her eyes. The Commander’s expression softened, too. 

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I think we were more shaken to discover that you are capable of yelling like that,” Cullen replied with a chuckle that was quickly followed with another scan of her face, looking to see if he had over-stepped. When a nearly imperceptible grin pulled at the corner of her mouth, he dared smile, too. 

“I am very much capable of it, unfortunately,” she replied.

“And playing the lute, I see?” he said, eyeing the instrument resting beside her, “I’d like to hear that.”

“Perhaps someday, Commander," she murmured.

The next morning, Evelyn quickly prepared herself and set off to apologize to Josephine. After she and the Commander walked back to Haven together, she spent the rest of the night rehearsing the apology in her head. Though the Commander’s kind words had left her feeling much better about the fallout of the previous day’s counsel, Evelyn still felt horribly guilty about her treatment of Josephine. When she arrived at her door, a brief knock was quickly met by Josephine ushering the Herald in. 

“Herald,” Josephine began immediately, “Please forgive me for disrespecting your wishes in regards to communication with your family. I have had time to reflect and there is no justification for my actions. I am sorry. I am so terribly sorry.”

The earnest look on Josephine’s face caught Evelyn’s heart with a closed fist. 

“Josephine, no,” Evelyn said softly, putting her hand to Josephine’s shoulder with a comforting squeeze, “I am the one who is sorry. I should have never spoken to you that way. There were factors you were unaware of and I should not have faulted you for it. I hope that you will forgive me.”

The lines of worry on Josephine’s face softened and her perfectly-trained and courtly smile returned weakly. 

“Of course, Herald. I am relieved to put this behind us.”

“I will explain more during counsel,” Evelyn began, hesitant but decided, “My past will be scrutinized and you all should be aware. I should not have been withholding.”

“Which reminds me…” Josephine began cautiously, “Your brother requested that I give you a letter. Also, in the name of transparency, I will give you the letters of my correspondence with him, as well. It is the very least that you deserve from me in this unfortunate situation.”

Hiram had written her a letter? Evelyn struggled to maintain her composure as her heart sank into her stomach. 

“Has Leliana read them?” Evelyn asked though sure of the answer.

Josephine merely nodded her head with guilt and handed over a bundle of letters that Evelyn slipped into her pocket. 

“Ambassador, Herald,” came the shaky voice of a messenger from the doorway, “The others are awaiting you.”

The two nodded and the messenger scurried away. Together, they entered the room where Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen stood waiting and mulling over reports of lesser importance. Evelyn noted Cassandra’s quick up-and-down look of her and Leliana’s inscrutable gaze. Cullen nodded and gave her a rather encouraging smile. 

“I owe you all an apology for my actions yesterday,” Evelyn began immediately, “And I assure you that I have much better control of my temper than what I demonstrated. It was beneath me and it was undeserved by all of you.”

Evelyn paused briefly as she felt increasingly less sure of herself. 

“I must also apologize for being withholding of my past,” Evelyn continued and Leliana’s eyes met her with a sparkling curiosity, “As there are matters that the Inquisition should be aware of that could call into question my ability to serve as Herald.”

While Josephine and Leliana showed no surprise, both Cullen and Cassandra shifted towards the Herald with concern. Evelyn called upon all the resolve that she had gathered the night before as she sat by her fire preparing for this moment. 

“I gravely injured my brother when we were children. I had been unable to control my magic.”

Cullen straightened to his full height and looked upon Evelyn with hesitation. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. 

“Did you know of this Leliana?” Cullen asked, his tone measured. 

Leliana nodded, but her eyes did not leave Evelyn’s face. 

“And you did not think to tell us?” Cassandra replied angrily. 

“I was curious as to whether or not our Herald would offer this information up herself.”

Though Evelyn felt her temper flicker at this comment, she knew what Leliana’s intention was. Though they had been working together closely for weeks now, they knew little about her. How Evelyn conducted herself at this moment was critical information for Leliana. Evelyn’s decision to confess or conceal this information would undoubtedly inform Leliana’s trust in her. 

“Worry not,” the Spymaster continued, “I have been mindful of any rumors making it out of Ostwick. It is in both our best interest and House Trevelyan that this information remains private.” 

Evelyn nodded her head curtly. 

“That’s settled then. There is no more to speak of in my regards to my family. Let us get back to work.”

With that, discussions of the watchtowers in the Hinterlands and hired arms in the Storm Coast began. Evelyn was glad to get back to Inquisition affairs, but the air felt charged. Occasionally, she would look up to Cullen’s steady gaze upon her.


	6. Chapter 6

Cullen carefully watched the Inquisition recruits as they had their morning sparring rounds, taking note of poor footwork or shield placement, and calling out to recruits as corrections were needed. This was easy work to him and he enjoyed knowing that, unlike with Inquisition decisions, he was sure of himself there on the battlefield. He did not have to think about unintended consequences, or Orlesian politics, or endangering the Herald’s life; he had only to yell out about sloppy posture and sword handling. 

“Come on, Pickett,” the Commander called out to one particularly meek recruit from the Hinterlands, “Stop collapsing behind your shield!”

“Aye, Commander,” she replied weakly, just as her sparring partner walloped her with a force that sent her sprawling to the ground and beneath her shield. 

A small, amused snort came from beside Cullen’s elbow and he started for a moment unaware that the Herald was approaching.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, her expression immediately turning serious, “I shouldn’t laugh.”

He brushed away the comment with a hand.

“Do you need something, Herald?”

Cullen immediately regretted his words that came out more sharply than he meant it. Truthfully, what the Herald had revealed to all of them a few days before had shook him. It was not the revelation itself that had left him unsettled, though, but his reaction to it. It wasn’t fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. A suspicion of magic still, perhaps, yet he had read all of Cassandra’s reports from Inquisition excursions, and Cullen knew that the Herald wielded her magic carefully. _The Herald is undoubtedly well-trained,_ Cassandra had written in one of her first reports to the Inquisition, _She is measured and exacting in her staff work, and has not once used magic when it was unneeded or danger was no longer imminent. Her discipline is obvious._ The Herald had given Cullen no reason to be wary of her, and he felt low simmering guilt that he had any question of her as a mage. She was an exemplary woman, on and off the battlefield, it was not right of him to feel uncomfortable in her presence now. 

“Yes,” she began and her voice was hesitant, “I was hoping to discuss something with you. I need sword training. I have none and it might be necessary for battle eventually. I do not want to be unprepared.”

“That’s wise,” Cullen replied, not looking at the Herald but at his soldier still, though he was paying no attention to their swordwork now, “I’m sure that Cassandra would be more than happy to train you.”

The Herald grimaced.

“There...was an attempt.”

At the end of her words, Cassandra’s voice rose up over the clatter of the sparring with a fury.

“You imbecile!” she cried at some poor recruit who looked ready to melt into the snow beneath him, “Is _this_ how you plan to fight against demons? You are no more than a child at play! Ugh!”

“Ah,” Cullen murmured, “I see.”

“Would you train me?” the Herald asked. 

Cullen weighed the question for a moment. If not Cassandra, surely there was someone else? Blackwall, maybe, but he had noticed how the Warden eyed the Herald. No, there was no one else. Cullen did not trust anyone other than himself or the Seeker. 

“Of course,” the Commander replied and he finally looked down to the Herald. Her gaze was intense, as always, and he felt himself falter for a moment. “Meet me at first light here tomorrow morning.”

The Herald nodded and quickly took her leave and the Commander looked back to his soldiers— but only after watching the ripple of her silky blond hair for a moment as she jogged back up to Haven’s gates. 

The next morning, the Commander met the waiting Herald exactly where they had spoken the day before and handed her a training sword and shield. She was immediately startled by the weight of both objects. Her staff was built from the branch of the cypress tree, lightweight and bending, and its blade and pointed arrow were made of strong but razor-thin Serpentstone; its weight felt like a feather compared to the heavy iron sword in her hand.

Cullen began walking the small trail that led to the outskirts of Haven towards the shack. 

“Are we not sparring here?” Evelyn asked, following after him.

“Erm, no,” the Commander replied, “It may be too distracting for the recruits.”

She was taken aback by the comment for a moment, unsure of what his exact meaning was, but assumed that it probably would be very distracting to watch the Herald of the Inquisition get knocked on her arse by the Commander. That would not bode well for morale, certainly. Cullen was grateful that she did not inquire further into his comment as it had less to do with her lack of skill than it did with some of the recruits’ comments about the Herald’s appearance. _Maker’s tit, she’s as pretty as Andraste herself_ , Cullen had overheard a few weeks before as the soldiers settled for the night with their evening meal. _Wonder if she’s as pious as Andraste,_ another soldier replied cheekily. Cullen had quickly put an end to the conversation, much to the mortification of the two soldiers, but the conversation made his ears burn thinking of it even now. Certainly, she was beautiful; Cullen was not so daft that he would refuse to acknowledge the fact. The Herald did have a startling resemblance to the portraits of Andraste with her elegant figure and billowing blonde hair which worked greatly in the Inquisition’s favor. The similarities were the subject of many conversations throughout Thedas, as both Leliana and Josephine had reported to Cullen and Cassandra in one of their first council meetings. Cullen also imagined that it made the more faithful soldiers resolve to fight for the Herald and Inquisition even harder, truly believing that Evelyn was fated for this task. The Commander did not dare to think too much about it himself. It was not appropriate. Though he did find himself often returning in memory to the moment that Evelyn appeared in battle before him, a massive cage of electricity coming down out of the sky to paralyze the demon that had come upon him then sinking her staff blade into its side, as her hair rose with the magic that she wielded and her eyes were ablaze with sheer prowess. The green light of her boon was nearly blinding in the presence of the demon. It nearly felled him, the beautiful and holy terror of it. Then, seeing her after in the War Room, he could hardly believe it was the same person that had come to his aid. She seemed softer, standing in the light of the torches, though her face was so serious and unreadable. Her features were fine and fox-like with her pointed chin and thinly arched eyebrows but her eyes struck him the most—moss green and incredibly intense. His breath hitched for a moment thinking of it now. 

“Commander,” the Herald asked, lingering behind him in a small clearing, “How about here?”

Cullen merely nodded and Evelyn felt uneasy. He hadn’t spoken to her at all on their walk out of Haven and she wondered if he was put out by her request for training. 

He broke his silence by walking her through the first few lessons of handling her sword and shield and the Commander was pleased to see her pick it up quickly. 

“You over-extend,” he said as she got used to the weight and feel of the sword in her hand, “To be expected. You’re used to the length of your staff. Keep your elbow closer to your rib.”

Although Evelyn had spent hours with the Commander discussing reports and tactics, she had not seen him like this. The aloofness that he had carried as they walked together earlier was entirely dissolved as he corrected her posture and foot placement and he was much more candid with her now. He even teased her as she clumsily fought to evenly distribute the weight of her weapons. Evelyn was grateful for it. She liked the confidence that he carried as he sparred with her, the self-assuredness. Though he was only exerting a fraction of his strength as he deflected her hits and met her with his own, his abilities were more than evident to Evelyn. Evelyn began slipping away to her thoughts as she mused of the Commander and was suddenly knocked back as Cullen’s sword crashed against her shield. 

“Focus, Herald,” the Commander said simply, assisting Evelyn back up. The wrinkled leather of his glove folded around the soft material of her own and she felt the warmth of his palm. He quickly dropped his hand from her and returned to his sparring stance. “Again.”

The two continued on until the sun had risen up over the Frostbacks and Evelyn grew tired. While diligently taking note of what needed to be improved in their next training, Cullen was learning much about the Herald herself in her approach to sparring. He was not ready to stop though he could hear that her breathing grew heavier with each round. Any good soldier knew to look for patterns in his enemy’s strategy to reveal their psyche—the subtle hints of weakness. Though Evelyn was certainly not his enemy, the process was as natural for him as the extension of blade from hand. Most evident to him was her distrust. While working on her offense, Cullen wielded his shield more liberally than his sword and encouraged Evelyn to come at him more directly yet she hesitated. She continued to flinch behind her shield and take on defensive posturing as though she did not believe that Cullen would not return her attacks. Then, when the duel was equally weighted between them, the Herald would occasionally have an unpredictable burst of well-placed and ferocious lunges. They were sloppy but showed potential. There was still much work to be done. 

“That’s enough for today,” he said eventually, sheathing his sword and resting his hand on the pommel.

“Maker, thank you,” Evelyn panted as her hands came to her knees to catch her breath. 

Cullen saw the flush in her face, both from the biting wind of the Frostbacks and the exertion of the sparring, and the hair that had begun to curl from sweat around her face. She had removed her coat, the tails of it distracting her as they bounced stiffly against her calves, so she stood before him now in the closely-fitted tunic that went beneath it. He quickly looked away for a moment as she went to put the coat back on, shaking the snow that had accumulated on it, but he had already observed the gorgeous roll of hip underneath the tailored waist of her tunic. 

“Tomorrow?” she asked as they both turned back to the trail. 

Cullen nodded his head but said nothing. Evelyn felt her uneasiness return as he did not speak again as they walked back to the tents. The Commander had just been talking and even laughing with her as they trained and his silence now made her annoyingly anxious. She watched him carefully as he walked just a pace ahead of her, the soft feathers of his coat rustling in the wind and his hair mussed from dueling. The thought had occurred to her that the story of what she had done to her brother probably did not sit well with the former Templar no matter if he was still of the Order or not. Anger welled up fiercely in her. Had she not forgiven _him_ for his actions at Kirkwall?

“You did well today, Herald,” he said, finally, as they came upon the soldiers beginning their own sparring rounds.

Cullen looked down at her and was confused by the rather tense look on her face and in her shoulders. She returned his look and her eyes were steely.

“Thank you, Commander,” her voice measured out in her usual diplomatic tone, “I will see you tomorrow.”


	7. Chapter 7

When Evelyn entered the Chantry, making her way to Josephine’s office, she did not anticipate being immediately swept up by Vivienne. 

“Hello, Evelyn,” the enchantress said in her usual courtly and sultry tone, “Please take care of this. Quickly.”

“Of wha—” Evelyn was interrupted as Vivienne rushed her up to a sniffling child standing beside Vivienne’s desk. 

“He’s lost his...” Vivienne began, her eyebrow arching with displeasure. 

“M-m-my doll,” the child began wailing.

“I am not particularly good with children, Herald,” the enchantress whispered to Evelyn, “I fear that I will only make this worse.”

With that, the enchantress quickly made off for Josephine’s office for refuge. Evelyn scowled after her for a moment but then crouched beside the devastated boy. Truthfully, she was not sure that she was much better than Vivienne in these matters. 

“Erm, right then, what’s your name?”

“Daniel…” he sniffled, the wailing thankfully ending. 

“And where was it that you last had your doll, Daniel?”

“In the dungeon,” he said with some guilt.

“In the dungeon?!” Evelyn cried but quickly backtracked as the child’s eyes widened and again filled with tears, “Oh, no, oh, Daniel, don’t cry again. Maker, please.”

The child quieted again as Evelyn moved to wipe away tears from his inexplicably sticky face. 

“What in the world were you doing down there? That’s no place for children.”

“That elf told me there were sweet rolls down there,” he eventually managed to say between racks of breaths. 

Naturally, this had to be Sera’s work, Evelyn cursed. 

“Let’s go have a look then. Do you want to help me?”

The child violently shook his head no.

“It’s scary down there! There's spiders!”

“Ah,” Evelyn said standing up, “But you will be with me, won’t you? And I can protect you, surely.”

The child slowly shook his head in agreement and offered his hand to Evelyn. She took it, met again with that inexplicable stickiness that children have, and pushed open the door to the stairwell that descended down to the old cells below the Chantry. It didn’t take long for the pair to discover Daniel’s doll, fallen between an old trunk and the stone wall, covered in a thin layer of grime. 

“Well, there it is!” Evelyn cried in triumph, dusting the doll off with her hand, “Safe and sound.”

Daniel snatched the doll from Evelyn with glee and pulled it close to him. He looked up at her with a great toothy grin but his face immediately fell into an unholy scream of fear ripping from his mouth.

“THEY’RE ON YOU!” he cried, “ALL OVER YOU!”

Evelyn then felt the brush of a tiny hairy leg across the top of her ear, then her neck, then on her hand, and began screaming herself. She began batting herself all over with the palm of her hand and shaking herself off in both desperation and sheer terror. Daniel began furiously beating the doll against the spiders swarming her. If Evelyn had been able to process anything but the spiders that had dropped all over her from the hole in the ceiling of the room, she would have been proud of him. Quickly, she scooped up both Daniel and rushed out of the room back to the staircase to get away from the onslaught of spiders, both of them still squealing. As she threw open the door to the main hall, she was met by Josephine and Vivienne both looking startled and Cullen and Cassandra bursting through the main doors. 

“Herald!” Cassandra cried, “Are you alright?”

Horribly embarrassed, Evelyn attempted to regain her composure and shook her hair out. A shudder attempted to run through her at the idea of spiders still crawling somewhere in her hair.

“Perfectly well,” she said, clearing the thick fear from her throat, “A brief Inquisition matter. It is settled now.”

“There’s spiders down there!” Daniel stammered, still clinging to her neck. 

With her advisors and Vivienne watching her, absolutely perplexed by the scene of the Herald holding a child with a dirtied doll and covered in cobwebs, Evelyn wished to immediately disappear. 

“Yes,” she said, setting the boy down, “And...Daniel was very brave.”

Daniel beamed in delight then took off out of the Chantry with his doll bobbing across the floor behind him. 

“Let us all meet now then? Since most of us are here?” Evelyn said, her voice still shaky, but wanting to leave the mortifying moment behind as quickly as possible.

“Let’s,” Josephine said quickly, attempting to hide her amused smile. 

“Let me collect some reports and Leliana, first. I’ll be there shortly,” Cassandra replied, seemingly irritated and eyeing the Herald. 

Cassandra made off to speak to Threnn and Josephine turned back to gather her materials for counsel. Vivienne approached Evelyn to brush a cobweb away from her forehead as Cullen stood back looking as though he was trying to contain himself as Josephine had. 

“Good work, my dear,” she said. 

Evelyn wanted to meet the woman’s twinkling eyes with a sharp look, but couldn’t help but let out a small laugh at her own expense. Vivienne patted her graciously on the cheek and returned to her work. With a quick glance down, she noted the many cobwebs that still clung to her. 

“Spiders?” The Commander ribbed, walking forward and plucking one of the offending creatures from the Herald’s collar. 

The sudden brush of his glove against her neck made her shiver though she pushed the thought away immediately. It was merely the idea of the spider there. 

“I am not fond of them,” she said stiffly. 

His expression dropped and Evelyn felt almost guilty. This scene must have been hilarious to witness, and her reaction to his ribbing was not kind. 

“Come, Herald, to work.”

Having concluded the day’s work early, Evelyn took leave to her quarters. She sat cross-legged in a chair, pulled close to the fire, with the bundle of letters in her lap. Evelyn had only managed to partially open one of the letters before it fell to her lap from her shaking hands. _Dearest sister,_ it had begun, and just the simple greeting nearly broke her. Deciding to unfold Josephine’s letters first, Evelyn began devouring the words on the page but quickly grew frustrated with the polite and diplomatic exchange; this was Sir Hiram Trevelyan of Ostwick, not her brother. Then the thought struck her like an open palm, _that’s who he is now. You are not children anymore._ Evelyn threw the letters on the floor and her head collapsed into her hands. Between her fingers, she saw again the cursive of her brother’s hand on the letter addressed to her. _Dearest sister,_ it encouraged, _dearest sister._

Slowly, Evelyn completely unfolded the letter and began reading.

_ Dearest sister, _

_ It has been so long, hasn’t it? Much too long for me to contain everything that I wish to say to you in this letter. I had hoped to come to Haven soon, but it seems that it will not be yet feasible. Perhaps, one day. I pray to the Maker for it. _

_ First, you must know that I am sure that father will learn of my correspondence soon. He always managed to intercept my letters when you were at the Circle, but I hope that this will find itself in your hands without any of his meddlings. If you wish to write back, address it to William Abbott. He oversees the horses now and is a dearly-trusted friend of mine. He will get your letter to me.  _

_ Evelyn, my sister, I miss you terribly. William brings me to the stables often as it is where I remember you best. When mother told me of your leaving, I wept at the thought of you not having your horses. I hope that you have them again now as you travel across the corners of Thedas, Herald of Andraste. I imagine that you ride a Free Marches ranger as you did here; you always loved how spirited they were.  _

_ I am still reeling from the news of the Conclave, that my sister carries Andraste’s blessing, that the sky is split open. I cannot imagine what it is that you are feeling. I hope that you do not carry it alone. Though I do know you—how you find your strength in your self-reliance. Still, you must remember that Andraste did not go it alone; you must not either.  _

_ I will not speak as though I know how the years have passed for you, sister, so perhaps I should not believe how I remember you as a child means that I know the woman that I write to now. We are nearly strangers, aren’t we? Though I am still Hiram who whittles acorns, hates maths, eats too much chocolate, and loves his sister. When I tell William of you, this is how I speak of you: she was a bright thing, generous in laugh and wit, terrible at keeping secrets, formidable in her pinches, and all heart. That is how I remember you, Evelyn, always.  _

_ I will not write of the accident here. We can speak of that sitting next to a warm hearth with an excellent Antivan vintage. But I will say this: it  _ **_was_ ** _ an accident. If there is one thing that I can ask of you, it is to believe that. Please, please accept that into your heart. You were only a child.  _

_ I know that mother and father will not lend their support, but I do— unequivocally. There is no one else who could see this through as you will. Do you remember how you would check the oil in my lamp before I went to bed to make sure it burned throughout the night so I would not be left scared in the dark? That is why Andraste has blessed you with her light now, because you will protect us through this long night. Maker guide and watch over you always. _

_ Your brother, _

_ Hiram _

Evelyn folded the letter gently back together, stood up from her chair, and set it onto the table beside her bed. Then, without any choice, she began to weep. She felt her sobs in every part of her body—her eyes, her face, her shoulders, her ribs, her stomach. It keeled her over; she held her hands to her knees and sobbed with such force she nearly wretched from it. For a moment, she thought there would be no end to it. That she would never see the world again through clear eyes without tears. She cried until the fire began to grow dim. Then, no more tears came, only deep and shuddering breaths that were being held in the fist of a giant. 

Eventually, she calmed. She thought to begin writing a letter back to him immediately, but the moment that her quill touched the paper, Evelyn began to weep again. No, she thought, she needed time. Hiram’s letter was more than she could have ever asked for, more than she could have ever deserved. It had overwhelmed her in its sentiment. Every memory that she held of her brother came rushing back to her: how she often found him speaking gently to their animals, how he was always trying to write poetry, how sometimes he would become so cross with Evelyn that he could only cry. She desperately wanted to speak to him, to see him, but she knew that she needed time. To know that he did not hate her, after all these years, was like coming out from underneath a mountain only to be met with a landslide. 

Her quarters suddenly became suffocating. Without thinking, she threw on her coat and made for the stables. Hiram had guessed rightly; she did still ride a ranger. When Master Dennet had brought his horses, she had been overwhelmingly delighted at the sight of the beast as it beat its hooves into the ground and snorted great clouds of steam into the cold air of Haven. 

After ensuring that Harrit and Dennet were not still lingering around, Evelyn entered into her horse’s stall and began to pat it with great affection. It snuffed with pleasure and began nosing her hand looking for a gift of cubed sugar or oats. Evelyn spoke gently to it and began to work at a knot that had taken in its mane. Slowly, without realizing at first, tears had wet her entire face. Her sobs were less violent and silent now, but they still consumed her body in their working. 

“Who’s there?” suddenly came the Commander’s voice, sounding suspicious, “You, in the stable.”

Evelyn leaned her head into the horse’s neck and nearly groaned with frustration at his intrusion.

“It’s just me, Cullen,” she called back. She could not use the title Commander right now. It felt too heavy in her mouth.

“Evelyn?” he asked quickly and Evelyn could hear his boots begin to hasten through the snow, “Are you alright?”

Evelyn felt the impulse to lie, but stopped herself.  _ I hope that you do not carry it alone _ , her brother had said. 

“No,” Evelyn managed to whimper, still burying her face into the horse. 

“Oh,” Cullen started.

The stall gate opened and closed gently behind her as he came to stand next to her. 

“What are you doing out so late?” she asked.

“I...could not sleep. I came to check the trebuchets,” he murmured, sounding guilty.

A laugh managed out of Evelyn’s laugh and the relief that she felt from it almost brought her to crying again. Josephine had been complaining to her only a few days ago of the Commander’s constant excuse of trebuchet-checking to dismiss himself when discussion of anything nobility-related arose. 

“Josephine has gotten wise to that, you know,” she said, wanting to be teasing but her voice came out flat from its exhaustion. 

Regardless, Cullen gave a small laugh.

“I will think of something new, then. Thank you.”

Silence fell, as it always did between them, and the only sound was the chortling of the horse. Cullen’s hand came to Evelyn’s shoulder and Evelyn felt as though her knees could buckle from the weight of it. It felt so good and foreign and warm and uncomfortable that it sent her head reeling. She pulled back from the horse and turned to look at Cullen. In the torchless stall, with only the fullness of the moon to serve as light, his face looked much softer than she had ever seen it though his eyes still burned like a gently-dying hearth. 

“And what are you doing out so late?” he asked gently, his hand not moving from her shoulder. 

Evelyn did not know how to answer him. She wanted to be honest but worried that if she opened her mouth to let the truth speak, she would begin to cry again. As though he sensed this, his hand moved further down her arm and held her firmly. 

“I received a letter from my brother,” Evelyn said quickly, hoping that if she said it fast enough that it would not hold power over her.

“I see…” Cullen nearly whispered.

And suddenly, her knees did give out. From the comfort of his hand, the softness of his voice, the heaviness of her grief, the weight of her brother’s forgiveness, the pain of her lost childhood, the burden of being the Herald—all of it brought her to the floor of the stall covered in dry hay, scattered oats, and horse dung. If Evelyn had not been completely powerless to the sobs that overcame her again, she might have felt embarrassed. If Cullen had not immediately come to meet her on the ground, taking her under his arm earnestly, she might have felt embarrassed.  _ I hope you do not carry it alone,  _ her brother wrote,  _ You must remember that Andraste did not go it alone.  _ Evelyn let herself be held, for what felt like an eternity, with Cullen’s cheek pressed to her hair, as she let herself come undone. 


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re holding cards, Blondie! Fess up!” Varric groaned from across the table. 

“Isn’t that the whole point of this game?!” Evelyn cried with indignation but fell to laughter at her friend’s anger. 

“This is pitiful. You’re wiping the floor with us.” Iron Bull said from beside her. 

Earlier that morning, she and the Commander had another round of training that had left her entirely irritated with the infuriatingly stoic man. Only a few days before, he had held her as she wept, half-carried her back to her quarters, and stoked her fire back up to warm the room as she let sleep overcome her. Since then, he had barely spoken to her. The morning after, he had sent a messenger asking that they postpone for a few days as he had new recruits to settle in. Now, upon seeing him again that morning for the first time, she saw no acknowledgment of the shift in their familiarity. 

Varric had caught Evelyn making her way back to her quarters with what must have been a rather sour look on her face. 

“Hey, Blondie!” he called out to her and she stopped as he jogged up to her. “The Iron Bull and I were planning to have a game of cards tonight. You in? You look like you could use a distraction.”

Evelyn considered it for a moment. The Commander’s aloofness had left her disheartened. She had half a thought to resign herself to the same sense of loneliness that she had at the Circle—surrounded by people at any given moment, but with little intimacy to be found with any one of them. Though admittedly she had grown closer to Josephine and sat with Varric frequently in the evenings before she retired to her quarters, the same gnawing of distrust worked at her as it had in the Circle. She was not  _ unliked  _ by her fellow mages, but  _ liked  _ was most certainly not a term that would describe their attitude towards her. Her relationship with Senior Enchanter Lydia was envied. At first, the older mages thought it her title as a Trevelyan that granted her a spot as one of the Senior Enchanter’s apprentices and Evelyn almost preferred the scorn that came from that assumption. After proving both her character and scholarship, she earned their respect but also their jealousy. Admittedly, the attention that Senior Enchanter Lydia gave her did nothing to promote a modest ego. Having had little in terms of encouragement or pride from her family, Evelyn developed a reverence for her mentor’s praise and sought it quietly but constantly. It must have made her insufferable to others but she did little to improve her relations with the other mages. Although they mostly kept their criticisms to themselves, there were a few instances where Evelyn overheard conversations of which she was the subject and none of them were kind. It pushed her further into her books, removing her further and further from the world, and undoubtedly stunted her ability to form anything meaningful in terms of friendship. Yet, here Varric was, offering an opportunity to seek it. 

“I would like that very much,” she finally replied, hopeful but unsure of herself. 

“Great, you’ll be buying the first round, then,” he laughed, clapping his hand against her arm. 

So now she found herself in the company of Varric, Iron Bull, Krem, and Sera, though the rogue had spent most of the evening cosying up to the tavern’s bard. They were beginning their third game of Wicked Grace and fourth (or fifth?) round of drinks and Evelyn felt positively intoxicated by both the ale and the hilarity of her company. 

“If I had known you were such a Wicked Grace player, Blondie, I would have thought twice about inviting you. My pockets are hurting,” Varric said before taking a generous swig from his cup. 

“I’m not! I swear it!” Evelyn protested, “It’s pure luck, I assure you, Varric.”

“Sure, sure, Herald,” Krem said with all of his usual sarcasm, leaning back onto the legs of his chair. “And I’m from Fereldan.”

“Listen, why don’t we raise the stakes a bit? Really test your mettle, boss?” Iron Bull said, giving the Herald a good look over as if weighing out his options.

“Happily, Bull,” she said, meeting his eyes with a challenge, and he grinned at her unexpected vigor. 

“Bets? Do I hear bets?” said Sera, bursting suddenly from the corner where she was schmoozing the bard and pulling a chair up to the table. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

“First loss has to buy the next round. Second loss has to give up their wallet. Third loss has to do a song and dance for the tavern. Last man out has to jump into a snowdrift.” Bull said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Surprisingly, Evelyn voiced her disappointment just as loudly as Sera over the relatively tame last stake. 

“I wasn’t done,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Has to jump into a snowdrift. Naked.”

“Ah, come on, Bull,” Varric interjected, “The Herald of Andraste can’t be seen running around wet and naked in Haven.”

“Who says that I will lose?” Evelyn jumped in, her competitive impulse immediately bristling at Varric’s comment. 

“Don’t do it, Herald! Bull just wants to see you na—” Krem began with a laugh but was immediately met with Bull’s fist in his chest. 

Varric, Krem, and Sera began arguing between each other about the effects of the Herald’s potential nakedness on the troops’ morale. Whereas it would have normally would have sent her spiraling into embarrassment and flushed cheeks, she ignored it as she stared down Bull from across the table. There was some part of her that was still pulling back the reins sharply on Evelyn’s impulse, but the ale had stirred up an orneriness that she had only ever had as a child before the Circle. It was foreign to her, but not unwelcome. With one swift movement, she guzzled the last of her ale and slammed it down onto the table—immediately ending the conversation around her. 

“Deal,” she said curtly. 

The game began and quickly became deadly serious. Less so for any pressure from the stakes set before the round, but more so for the sake of all their feelings of pride. Round after round was spent as each of the parties eyed each other suspiciously.

“This is never going to end,” Krem eventually bemoaned, “Somebody draw the Angel of Death already.”

But the card did not arise for several more turns. Then, there it was, after what felt like hours: the Angel of Death. 

“Reveal your hands,” Varric called gruffly.

Krem had the weakest hand and begrudgingly ordered another round for the group. Sera cackled when it was determined she had the second losing hand.

“Egg on all of your faces,” she yelled, “I have no wallet!”

Iron Bull was next loss and the group decided that a brief musical interlude would only heighten the sense of victory and loss to the respective players. Varric and Evelyn turned their cards back onto the table to give their full and rapt attention. The Bull clambered up from his seat and gave a delightful rendition of the bawdiest tavern tune she had ever heard involving low-swinging bosoms and chiseled bottoms (even Sera seemed impressed) as he made a coordinated attempt at dancing. The group nearly fell to the ground laughing as he gave an unbalanced twirl at the end and lost half the drink from his cup onto himself. 

The second he sat down, though, the group became totally silent. Varric and Evelyn flipped their cards back over onto the table and Bull let out a laugh that shook nesting birds out of the rafter.

“Oh, Maker, what have I done?” Evelyn cried in utter defeat, seeing that Varric had the best hand.

“Naked! Naked! Naked!” Sera began chanting while tugging at the Herald’s tunic. 

“Listen, Blondie, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Varric said, swatting away Sera’s hands.

“What! Not fair!” Sera protested.

“Coming from you!” Krem scolded.

Evelyn sat ogling at the cards for a moment and then stood up abruptly. 

“Well, let’s go then,” she said.

Another air-shattering laugh came from Iron Bull and the others rose from the table to follow after her out of the tavern. 

“Come on, boss,” Iron Bull called after her as she walked quickly ahead of them, “It’s okay if you want to chicken out!”

Feeling dispossessed from her body, she raised up both middle fingers on her hands back to him and was glad to be facing away from the group because the riot of laughter following behind her broke her resolve to accept her loss with steely grace. Evelyn did not know who this woman was that had suddenly taken possession of her body, but she did not fight it. They caught up with her at the gate and made their way out together. Iron Bull led the group with authority, as though he knew exactly which snowdrift to lead Evelyn to, and turned back to them as they came upon the Commander’s tent. Then, ridiculously, he began tip-toeing past it, lifting up his bulking legs and coming down quietly on his feet in such an exaggerated manner that the whole group fell into fits. 

“Hush, hush,” Evelyn began quickly, trying to quiet the group as even she could hardly contain her mirth. The idea of waking the Commander was horrifying, but the image that her spinning brain concocted of him disapproving of her and her merry band of revelers nearly doubled her over in laughter. She knew she was tightly-laced, but Maker, the Commander was— 

A sudden rustling came from the tent and all thoughts immediately flew from her mind as Sera hooked her lanky arm around her then began dragging the Herald forward. The running was painful both from the cold and the chain of laughter that kept passing between Sera and Evelyn as they sprinted with the group towards the outskirts of Haven. 

“Who knew you were such fun, yeah?” Sera panted beside her, “Nice to see you not all Herald-y and broody or whatever.”

Whether it was from the copious amount of ale or the excitement rushing through her, Sera’s words filled her heart with a warmth that she had not felt for a very long time. Nobody would have ever used the word  _ fun  _ to describe her at the Circle. Had they not been running, she might have squeezed Sera into a rib-crushing hug. Maybe. 

“If we woke Curly up,” Varric chortled ahead of them, “It’s every person for themself.”

The group eventually came to a stop and took a moment to catch their breath. Iron Bull had brought them to a snowdrift that had built up next to the perimeter wall of Haven. It was absolutely massive and not at all the small mound that she had anticipated. The flesh of her skin rose up preemptively. 

“Alright, boss,” Iron Bull said, clapping his hands together, “Get stripping!”

“Fine,” she hissed, though in good spirit, “but only down to my smalls. The rest you will have to imagine.”

Even the Bull guffawed at the lewdness of her comment then shook with laughter.

“Fair enough,” he replied, “I have a good imagination.”

“What,” Sera whined, “But that wasn’t the deal!”

Krem gave Sera a playful slap with his hand. 

Quickly, attempting to push down the rising sense of discomfort, she began to work at the buttons of her tunic then the laces of her pants.

“Maker’s balls, it’s cold. Get to it, Herald of Andraste!” Sera goaded.

“Oh,  _ you’re  _ cold.” Evelyn shot back as she threw her tunic and pants at the giggling elf.

Cold was not the word for this. The Frostback wind was nearly cutting with its severity. It distracted her for a moment from the fact that she was unclothed in front of her companions. Evelyn wouldn’t have described herself as a prudish person, but she certainly felt her neck start to itch from the embarrassment of being so revealed. 

“Alright, time to pay your dues!” Varric called from behind her. 

Evelyn nodded her head, half responding to Varric and half convincing herself to see this through. Before she had a chance to gather her resolve completely, she was lifted up from behind her knees onto the Bull’s shoulder. A surprised yelp had barely made it out her mouth before it was muffled deep in the snow. Iron Bull had  _ tossed  _ her into the drift. And, incredibly, it wasn’t any colder than the wind, but the slipping of snow into her smallclothes was certainly a different kind of chilling. The muffled laughs of the group barely penetrated through the snow as Evelyn began quickly pushing herself out. She then heard a deep rumble of somebody’s voice, Bull’s surely, approaching the drift. The wall of snow began to shift in front of her as he dug towards her and a hand plunged through that she grabbed onto gratefully as he pulled her out. The force of his arm back to his body sent Evelyn crashing into his chest and he caught her around the waist. She went to brush the snow that had crusted her eyes but realized that...this was definitely not Iron Bull. The chest was broad, but too small for the Qunari, and smelled strongly of pine, earth, and smoke. And there were feathers. The Commander, Evelyn realized, and her heart plummeted to the swirling cauldron of her ale-filled stomach. 

“ _ Evelyn? _ ”

Evelyn shook the snow from her eyes and face as he released her rather suddenly. Behind him, she saw the retreating figures of her companions sprinting back to Haven. The Commander took a sharp breath and turned away from her modestly. Immediately, Evelyn looked to where she had thrown her clothes to Sera. She was almost grateful for the rush of blood into her face from her embarrassment but it quickly drained once she realized that Sera did not have the mind to toss the Herald’s clothes from her arms when she went running from the Commander.

“Erm, Commander,” Evelyn began but the words could hardly make it out of her chattering teeth, “I believe that...well...Sera just took off with my clothes.”

A strangled noise came from him.

“Sera has your—Maker’s breath.”

He began quickly unknotting his feathered cloak from his shoulders and thrusting it back behind him to her. Her pride thought to reject it, but the violent shaking of her body was making her nearly weak and she quickly pulled it around her. The Commander then turned around, hardly making eye contact with her. Evelyn felt the urge to jump back into the snow drift in her shame. Maker, what could he possibly be thinking of her right now? 

“We need to get you warm,” he said and his voice was incredibly neutral as he held her around the shoulders to begin walking towards the direction of the old shack. 

“No, that’s quite alright, Commander,” again, the chattering of her teeth made her nearly unintelligible, “I can make it back to my quarters.”

“You have no shoes,” he replied and though his voice was still soft, Evelyn knew that there would be no further arguing. 

Cullen made quick work of beginning a fire in the hearth and Evelyn sat in the chair beside it, exactly where they had been only weeks prior, and felt as small as a child. He turned to a corner of the room and began rummaging through an old chest, unearthing a wool blanket and much-too-big pair of holey slippers from it. As he handed them to her, neither of them made eye contact. The mix of drink in her stomach and utter mortification was bringing a wave of nausea that she fought down. Once content with the fire, he took the seat beside her but said nothing. The warmth of the fire nearly brought tears to Evelyn’s eyes. She had never experienced a cold that made her feel as though you would never feel warmth again until tonight. Quickly, she glanced at the Commander out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing only his leather britches and a roughspun tunic, obviously haphazardly thrown on in the dark of his tent as it draped clumsily on his shoulders. Evelyn couldn’t help but notice his exposed collarbone and the well-developed muscle of his chest. 

“Are you cold?” Evelyn managed to squeak out. 

He only shook his head. 

“There are no words for how embarrassed I am right now,” she said. 

He turned to her but said nothing. Maker take him, she was truly growing impatient with the Commander’s silences. Though the cold had sobered her up considerably, she still felt the inhibition that so many rounds of drink gifted her.

“For the love of the Maker, Commander, tell me what you are thinking.”

Cullen could not  _ possibly  _ begin to tell the Herald what he was thinking. How he had caught a glimpse of her backside before Iron Bull threw her from his shoulder. How good the small of her waist felt underneath his hand. The sensation of her chest breathing against his for a moment after catching her, only two pieces of thin fabric between them. And now, her sitting before him, unclothed save for his cloak. Had he not been so entirely consumed by his wanting for her in that moment, he might have felt guilty for it. Some part of him, though, thankfully kept himself contained—however thinly. The lyrium withdrawals had made him a weaker man, defenseless to his desires, and the urge now to rip his cloak from her shoulders and take her right there on the floor of the shack...Maker preserve him, he was so painfully ashamed of himself. 

“Did you have fun tonight?” His voice came out rough and he immediately wished to try again. It sounded too critical, too angry. 

“Yes, I did,” she said curtly. 

“I’m glad.”

Evelyn was entirely vexed and growing more and more irritated. Asking her such a question as though she had done something illicit! The nerve. She began stringing together her reply, weighing out the right words to make it sting, but he spoke again. 

“I mean that, Herald,” his voice still low, “You should not have to carry Thedas on your back at every moment. It will crush you. You deserve some reprieve.”

His words disarmed her completely. He hesitated for a moment and Evelyn watched his face closely, illuminated by the light of the fire. His eyes were dark but his expression was inscrutable. 

“But perhaps there are better options than stripping down to your smalls and letting the Bull toss you around.”

Again, his words came out not at all how he meant them to. They still sounded much harsher than he intended them. Though some part of him was upset that the Herald has acted recklessly, no harm was done. There was no reason to treat her with any anger for one night with one drink too many. He had meant to make light of tonight’s events. 

“I suppose you’re right,” she murmured, “The Iron Bull isn’t really my type.” 

Cullen crossed his arms tightly over his chest, the comment causing a stir in him that was entirely unwarranted, but he managed to look up at her. She was looking at him, with a small smirk, but her eyes quickly left his own to gaze at the fire. 

“I, too, am capable of making a joke, Commander.”

“So you are,” he breathed. 

  
  


The next morning, she awoke with a headache that felt as volatile as a rift, and the events of the night before rushed her. She and Cullen had left the shack after she regained feeling in her extremities, and the Commander had escorted her back to her quarters. When they had arrived at her door, she asked him to hold for a moment, quickly threw on some clothing, and brought his coat back out to him. His fingers had pressed to hers for a moment as she handed it to him, and most embarrassingly, she had forgotten to let go for a moment. They bid each goodnight and Evelyn had thrown herself on to the bed. Now, she was awake, and the world felt upside down. Not solely because of the hangover, but because of her thoughts of the Commander. Unarmored, he was much less intimidating yet still sharp in his features. Guarded still underneath all that metal. She had thought he would be angry with her, but the care he took of her suggested otherwise. Evelyn could not make sense of him and it infuriated her. 

Rather than dwelling on it, she began preparing herself for the day. A quick rapt came to her door. 

“Message for the Herald.”

Evelyn opened the door and accepted the note from the trembling soldier before her who quickly took back off through Haven. 

_ Herald,  _

_ We will defer our training today until you return from the Therinfal Redoubt.  _

_ Commander Cullen _

Though she had miraculously awoken at her usual time for training, she sighed with relief at the Commander’s note. Certainly, any sparring would lead to excessive vomiting this morning and she did have other matters to attend to in preparing for their journey to meet with the Templars. She pulled her coat over her tunic and set off to see Hattie. The idea of food turned her stomach violently, but in her few experiences with this sensation while living in the Circle, she knew that a generous piece of bread could sop up the hot acid churning in her belly. 

In the kitchen, Sera was sitting at the table with her forehead pressed against the wood as she stabbed blindly at a plate of food and brought the fork beneath the table to eat from it. 

“Good morning, Sera.”

Sera waved her fork with little enthusiasm. 

“Got your britches. Sorry ‘bout that,” came her muffled voice. 

Evelyn sat beside her and boldly took a piece of spice loaf from her plate. 

“No. Stop. Don’t,” Sera droned, haphazardly wielding her fork threateningly in Evelyn’s direction. 

Hattie emerged from the pantry to the sight of Evelyn slowly swatting away Sera’s fork from her  face in a pitiful battle over Sera’s breakfast. 

“Let me fetch you a plate too, dear,” she chuckled. 

Halfway through their meals, the two women managed to rouse themselves and Sera lifted her forehead from the table.

“You should have seen the look on the Commander’s face, Evie. Like he’d never seen a woman before. Hope he didn’t give you too hard of a time. Or maybe I do,” she said, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. 

Like a hound taking to scent, Hattie snapped her neck around from her spot next to the fire. 

“The Commander, you say?” 

Evelyn groaned. 

“It’s not like that,” she sighed. 

“Whatever you say,” Sera muttered, “But you mostly naked, him all repressed Templar…”

“Naked?” Hattie cried, clutching at her apron, “Naked?!”

“Believe it, lady, the Herald bared to her Commander out in the snow an—”

“By the Maker, Sera, shut up,” Evelyn begged. 

“Oh my,” the cook whispered, holding her hands to her chest, “Sounds terribly romantic.”

Evelyn quickly excused herself from the table to begin her preparations.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There are some graphic depictions of violence and gore in this chapter.

When the Lord Seeker pulled Evelyn through the door, she meant to scream but it lodged in her throat like a stone. She had done this once before; in her Harrowing, she had felt as though she tripped backward through the Veil—the sort of feeling one has in dreams when falling. She knew that she was no longer in the world when her body hit the ground and did not hurt. The demon began speaking to her but Evelyn cursed at him. He would make no claim of her. 

As she stood up to start making her way out, Evelyn began making sense of her surroundings. There were great stone archways that had begun to crumble and grow with vines and leaves. A thick and pungent fog billowed across the dying grass below her feet and crawled up the archways. Whispers came as if flies around her head. Evelyn could see two figures ahead, concealed by shadow and fog, and made for her staff—but it was gone. 

“ _I do not need a staff to be dangerous, Seeker_ ,” the demon mocked, “That is what you had said, wasn’t it? Because you know what you are capable of, how you can barely contain yourself.”

Evelyn clenched her jaw and steadied herself. She could not let the demon into her mind. 

The two figures became suddenly clear to her. It was Cullen and Josephine, both looking at her with no expression, but their faces were dirtied and mottled. The usual whites of their eyes were dark with blood from burst veins. They had no irises—only the black of pupils. Josephine opened her mouth and a great spider crawled out of it and moved up her face to rest itself across her scalp. 

“And who are they to you?” the demon whispered, “Why do you stink of fear, Herald?”

Evelyn went to move between them to the door that stood behind Cullen and Josephine but they lifted their arms in unison and shoved her back onto the ground. Another shadow came forward, taking form as a cloud of smoke breathing into a figure, and it was Evelyn. She scrambled from the ground and held her boon up to it; the figure regarded her coldly with its green, glowing eyes. It came behind Josephine and began to slowly consume her in its shadow; Josephine began to melt as though caught in fire. A cry tried to escape Evelyn but she choked it down. The demon would take no power from her. 

“Perhaps this, then…” the demon said with disappointment. 

Suddenly, the shadow billowed up behind Cullen and Josephine lay as a puddle of black oil in the grass; her face, as though a mask, lay on top of it and watched her. Evelyn tore her eyes from it to look at Cullen. The shadow held a black knife to his throat.

“He isn’t real,” Evelyn said coldly to the demon.

The knife began to drag slowly across Cullen’s throat, the same black oil pouring from it. As though a reflex, she reached for him, but in an instant, she was standing behind him where the shadow had been. The knife was in her hand taking the last inches of its drag across his throat. Cullen’s body was heavy in her arms as they both fell to the ground— the oil filling Evelyn’s hands as she threw the knife away from them. 

“And in my darkest hour, I turned away from Her and vowed that I would destroy Her,” came the familiar voice of Leliana.

Evelyn began frantically looking to where the Spymaster’s voice came from, holding Cullen tightly against her with her hand cradling his face to her chest, and Leliana was suddenly kneeling in front of her. 

“At the moment of Her death, I knew what I had done and wept,” she purred to Evelyn. 

Evelyn quickly lifted herself off the ground though she made gentle work of resting Cullen softly against the grass without daring to look at him. She began to run from the bodies, from Leliana, into the next room. Cassandra paced the room, it filled with the memory of her interrogation after the Conclave, and Evelyn kept going—nearly bursting through the door at the end of the room. She flew past Inquisition soldiers, huddled and talking quickly, and their conversations filled her head as though they were her own thoughts. Her voice replied though it was not her voice. 

“No one will challenge the Inquisition, now,” a soldier spoke. 

“And never will again so long as I shall live,” came her voice, sounding ravenous. 

The demon cackled, “You are afraid of your own power, Herald. _Let me take it_.”

Everywhere she turned, she saw her shadow figure raising its fist, crying for more power, rallying soldiers to take arms against Thedas. Evelyn’s legs began to feel boneless underneath her. A door stood to her right and she dove for it, tumbling into a small, torch-lit room with a desk and chest. The voices ceased. Evelyn panted as she laid on the floor, half-exhausted and half-hysterical, and tried to collect herself. A hand came to her shoulder and it was horrifyingly cold and wet-feeling. 

“It is not you. It is Envy. Shadows of yourself are only that—shadows,” came the voice of a young man standing over her, his face concealed by a large brimmed hat.

Evelyn pushed away from him and scrambled back against the floor.

“No, I wish to help you!” he pleaded, reaching for Evelyn, as she backed into the wall.

“What are you?” Evelyn demanded.

“I am Cole. I want to help. That’s why I am here, with you, in yourself.”

“What is your intention?” she snapped.

“The Elder one is coming. There is a way out. Going up. Envy cannot stretch that far. Let me guide you,” he said gently.

Evelyn eyed him suspiciously. His form did not move with shadows like all the others and his eyes had their whites. Though his face was gaunt and bloodless-looking, he looked at her earnestly. Against her better judgment, she nodded. 

“Show me,” she said, gathering herself from the floor. 

Together, they exited the room and entered into a courtyard filled with pillars spewing veil fire.

She sprinted through a break in the fire and found herself in another small room containing a cell. Her heart burst at the sight of Josephine within it, no longer a pool of oil with a face. Josephine took no notice of her and called desperately to an Inquisition soldier standing in the corner of the room.

“Please, bring me to her. I do not know what it is she wishes me to confess. I do not wish to die here. Please, please,” she begged. 

Tears sprung to Evelyn’s eyes at the sight of the Ambassador; her face was bruised and bloodied and her silks were thick with mud. 

“We must keep going…” Cole coaxed, “Take the torch.”

She bit down on her emotion and did as she was told. They ran through another gap in the fire to find themself in another cell. When Evelyn saw Cullen within it, she nearly made for the door to pry it open with her bare hands. He sat on his knees praying as he murmured the Chant of Light to himself. Shards of lyrium vials were shattered around him. 

“By gods forsaken, fate emptied of hope, wounded I fell then, by grief arrow-studded, never to heal, death for me come,” he whispered. A broken cry came from him suddenly and he pitched forward to hold his hand in his hands, "Maker, spare me of death so that I must live with this forever.”

“I told you,” Cole said gently, “Shadows of yourself are only that.”

Yet Evelyn could not tear herself away from the scene.

“See how you will break this man,” the demon laughed, “See how you will misguide him.”

“No,” Cole said firmly, “Envy knows. It is hurting you, but it isn’t real.”

“Stop that,” the demon seethed at Cole, “She must look upon the spoils of her wanting.”

“It isn’t _real_ ,” Cole begged, “We must keep going up.”

Finally, Evelyn turned away with a shuddering breath and followed after Cole. 

Hours later, after defeating the corrupted templars and Envy, Evelyn sat beside the fire of their camp and forced herself to purge her mind of what had happened until she was left blankly staring into the fire. She thought of the spirit, Cole, who had helped her and desperately wished that he were here now to remind her again that what she saw wasn’t real: Josephine, Cullen, the Inquisition, the soldiers that she came upon and ripped through with the power of the Mark when they went to attack her. It held no truth of what would become of her. Though she told these things to herself, it was plaguing her—the way that she spoke to the soldiers, Josephine’s face upon the ground, Cullen’s begging to the Maker. Did demons not seek out the truths of one’s mind to take hold of one? She knew the answer. The demon had unearthed the very darkest of her suspicions of herself: that she would not know the limits of her wanting. Would she become so fervent in her attempts to do good that she would allow herself to become brutal in her efforts? Heavy boots began to tread the earth behind her but Evelyn did not turn to see who approached her. 

“Herald,” Cassandra said, “I am writing my reports now so that they may arrive before we reach Haven. There will be much to discuss.”

Evelyn only nodded her head as Cassandra sat beside her. 

“I do not know what to say of…” the Seeker continued hesitantly. 

Evelyn knew why she hesitated. Envy had pulled itself and Evelyn into her own mind. How _does_ one write of that?

“Does that need to be in the report?” Evelyn asked curtly. 

“A demon froze you where you stood,” Cassandra continued and Evelyn was surprised at how gentle it sounded, “I do not think that is information we should withhold.”

Though Evelyn did not want to admit it, Cassandra was right. She had planned to speak to Solas once they returned to Haven to discuss what had happened. Even though Envy was slain, the idea that it might have left any part of itself inside her...She would not speculate on it; the apostate would know of this kind of demon work. 

“Envy showed me the corruption of the Inquisition. It was trying to take possession of me as it had the Lord Seeker. I will seek Solas’ counsel once we return to Haven.”

Cassandra nodded her head then looked into the fire as Evelyn did. 

“Herald,” she murmured, “what did it show you?”

“The Inquisition controlled all of Thedas,’ Evelyn said simply as she had no energy for anything other than the truth, “We took Ferelden, Orlais, Antiva…Demons ran amok under my control. Josephine and Cullen were imprisoned for treason. I was a monster.”

Cassandra paused for a moment then spoke. “Are you alright?”

The question took Evelyn’s aback. She and the Seeker very rarely spoke outside of the council room. Evelyn respected Cassandra greatly, but there was always a tension between the two—even when they agreed on matters which they often did. 

“I will be,” Evelyn replied, “I will just need time.”

The answer felt close enough to the truth for Evelyn.


	10. Chapter 10

The journey back to Haven took nearly two weeks. It felt as though disaster after disaster sought to keep them from returning. One of the carts broke a wheel. A horse had keeled over for no discernible reason. A soldier had nearly mortally wounded himself after slipping during a mountain pass. Evelyn had been bitten by some venomous insect that left her horribly sick for several days. Already so broken-spirited immediately after the events of Therinfal Redoubt, Evelyn felt as though she had brought a curse down upon them. She worried that demons had found them and it consumed her with paranoia. Every night, she would keep guard as sleeping was an impossible task. When she closed her eyes, she would immediately feel the weight of a knife in her hand as it drew across Cullen’s throat; she would feel him go limp in her arms. Cassandra sat with her many evenings, seemingly unable to rest herself, and Evelyn was grateful for her silent company. Most nights, Blackwall would join her as she would walk around the perimeters of their camp. She had come to quite appreciate his presence; he was an uncomplicated and kind man. They would walk quietly together as Blackwall would tell her a story of some great fallen soldier of old or teach her the different tracks of animals. 

When they eventually reached Haven, they barely had the energy to be relieved for their arrival home. It was dusk and the air had begun to thicken with snow. The sunset was cold and muted as it dipped below the Frostbacks. Shadows seemed longer upon the ground than they were usually. Without speaking, the horses and their carts were unpacked and everyone took leave of each other except for Cassandra and Evelyn who made for the Chantry together. When they entered, Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine stood together in the hall exchanging reports. The orange glow of torches and plush, maroon carpet of the Chantry was a startling contrast from the outside world that was dimming with matte blue light and a colorless sun. 

“Oh, thank the Maker, you have returned,” Josephine cried with relief. 

Evelyn could not bring her eyes up to meet them, afraid that Josephine would turn to a pool of oil on the floor before her. 

“The Templars have not yet arrived,” Leliana spoke, “My scouts report that they are two days out.”

“We began preparing for their arrival the moment that we received your report, Cassandra,” Cullen said and Evelyn felt her stomach turn over at the sound of his voice, “We are ready for them.”

“Good,” Cassandra replied, her voice hoarse and weary from travel, “We will make quick work of the Breach.”

A silence fell over all of them and Evelyn felt as though they were expecting her to speak. Rather, she stared into the floor and said nothing. 

“I know that there is work to be done,” Cassandra said, “but our journey was difficult. I think it best that I and the Herald rest. We have time before the Templars arrive.”

Evelyn heard Josephine begin to speak but Cullen quickly quieted her. 

“Yes,” he spoke, “I agree. Let us meet tomorrow, then.”

Evelyn immediately turned to leave the Chantry and go to speak with Solas. As she exited the doors, they all looked after her.

“Has she spoken more of what happened, Cassandra?” Leliana asked. 

“No,” Cassandra shook her head, “Nothing more than what I had reported.”

“Should we worry?” Josephine asked, though her voice was already fraught with it. 

“I do not know,” Cassandra admitted, “She is going to speak to Solas.”

With that, the advisors took leave of one another. 

  
  


When Evelyn arrived to speak to Solas, he seemed as though he had been waiting for her. There was tea set for two on the table, some fruits and cheeses, and a glass of something green and swirling. 

“Come, Herald,” he said, waving her to the table.

She sat and looked to the spread before her. For the last two weeks of travel, they had maintained themselves on rationed provisions and whatever Blackwall managed to snare in a trap. She looked down to the plump fruit and slabs of cheese before her, expecting hunger to take to her stomach, but felt nothing. 

“I was told of what happened at Therinfal Redoubt,” as though answering the question that was beginning to form in Evelyn’s head, “Though I suspect it is not the whole of the truth.”

Solas took the seat across from her and offered the glass of green liquid to her; she grimaced.

“I know,” he said with some humour, “It is not appealing but it will help.”

Evelyn took it from him and began to swiftly drink it. The taste was not so unpleasant as she expected, and she began to feel as though her mind was being relieved from pressure. 

“It is felandaris and holy elfroot. Your Spymaster procured it for me. It is what I drink after extensive time spent in the Fade.”

“Thank you,” Evelyn rasped, nearly expecting dust to fall out of her mouth from its lack of use over the last fortnight. 

“Do you wish to tell me what happened?” Solas asked. 

Evelyn nodded her head and Solas leaned back into his seat casually. Though she did wish to speak to him, it felt impossible to. He looked at her kindly and without pressure. 

“Take your time, Herald,” he said gently. 

“I…” Evelyn croaked, “I am scared, Solas.”

“Of what?” he asked.

“That it is still in my mind,” she whispered.

“I do not believe it is,” he said, bringing his elbows to the elbow and taking deep measure of her with his eyes, “I sense only your fear, no demon.”

“Would you know it was there?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said with authority, “I would.”

It brought her some relief, however small. 

“I watched Josephine burn before me,” she said quietly, “I cut Cullen’s throat. I let the Inquisition fall to demons.”

“Have you told this to anyone?” Solas asked quickly.

Evelyn shook her head.

“It may be best not to,” he sighed.

Evelyn looked to him and found him looking at her with such compassion and care that it overwhelmed her. She only nodded. Solas was the only person that she could trust with this confession and that is why she had come to him. He knew this already. 

“You are much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Herald,” he said, leaning across the table and gently patting one of her hands still gripping the glass that she had drank from, “You must rest. The drink will bring you no dreams so it may be peaceful. Let us speak more tomorrow.”

Evelyn did feel the heaviness of her eyelids and sleep did not sound so unappealing now. 

“Thank you, Solas,” she said and he smiled.

  
  


When she entered her quarters, the heaviness of her eyelids had spread to her entire body so when she saw the spirit, Cole, sitting cross-legged beside her hearth, she had barely the energy to yelp in surprise. 

“I came with you,” he said, apologetic and guilty like a child, “I want to keep helping.”

Evelyn only nodded her head at him and crawled into her bed. She turned to look at Cole as he moved his finger through a pile of ash before him as though making drawings with it. 

“You are welcome here, Cole. I would not have made it through that without you,” she murmured, slowly moving into sleep.

“Yes. You would have,” he said simply without looking at her, consumed by his playing with the ash. 

Evelyn, unsure of the hour though it was dark, woke to the sound of voices outside of her door. She looked to where Cole had been sitting but he was gone. The voices sounded as though they were arguing: one voice hushed, the other much sharper in its tone. Still half in dreaming, she could hardly make out their words for a moment.

“She’s resting, Hattie,” the hushed voice scolded. “Let her be.”

“One of my cooks said she looked dead as a dog. I just want to check on her,” Hattie snapped. 

“You can tomorrow,” and Evelyn realized it was Cullen arguing with Hattie.

Evelyn got up, her body feeling heavy as iron, and opened up her door to the pair. Hattie had her finger in the Commander’s chest with a ferocious look in her eyes and Cullen looked exasperated. Both of them looked to Evelyn in surprise. 

“You woke her,” Cullen grumbled but Hattie immediately swept up Evelyn in her arms, ignoring the Commander’s comment. 

“My, aren’t you a dreadful sight, dear,” she said.

“Hi, Hattie,” Evelyn said meekly under the crushing arms of the woman’s embrace. 

For a moment, the hug had made Evelyn stiff with her discomfort but the smell of Hattie—clove, allspice, cinnamon—brought a rushing sense of familiarity with the world again. Eventually, the woman released her. 

“Cullen, see to her hearth. Her fire’s nearly out,” Hattie demanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Cullen said with some irritation but resignation to the woman’s bidding. 

Hattie rushed Evelyn back into the room, steering her to her chair beside the fireplace, and pushing her down into it. She ducked back out the door for a moment and reappeared with a platter covered in gingham cloth. Hattie set it down on Evelyn’s desk but did not remove the cloth.

“Just in case, dear,” Hattie said gently, “If you want it.”

Cullen, who had been removing a few logs from the pile outside of her quarters, reentered and began placing them expertly into the hearth. Evelyn wondered just how many fires the Commander had prepared for her now though she could barely tolerate looking at him. He was out of his armor, wearing a thick cotton tunic, and Evelyn could see how the fabric pulled across his shoulders. Evelyn forced her eyes away to look at Hattie who was rummaging in Evelyn’s drawers for something but Evelyn made no protest of it. Eventually, Hattie found what she sought—a hairbrush. Reflexively, Evelyn put her hand to her hair and her fingers immediately met a mess of tangles. Her normally well-kept hair was nearly one lump at the nape of her neck. Evelyn did not want to know what the rest of her looked like. _Dead as a dog_ , she recalled ruefully. 

Hattie came to stand behind Evelyn with the brush but Evelyn took it gently from her hands. A look of disappointment and concern crossed Hattie’s face. 

“I’m tender-headed,” Evelyn admitted sheepishly. 

“Is there _anything_ that I can do for you?” Hattie asked, placing her hands on Evelyn’s shoulders behind her. 

“No, but thank you, Hattie,” Evelyn said, “I will come see you in the morning.”

Hattie seemed unsatisfied but gave Evelyn an affectionate squeeze.

“In the morning, then, dear,” she murmured as she made for the door.

Panicked, Evelyn realized that she was about to be left alone with Cullen who was now standing up from the hearth and shaking the ash from his hands. Before she could call for Hattie to stay, the door shut softly behind the woman. 

“Do you need anything?” he asked, looking to her, but Evelyn distracted herself by working at one of the knots in her hair. 

“I’m fine,” Evelyn said, rather shortly, ignoring the lines that creased the Commander’s face in worry. 

“Evelyn,” he said softly.

She began to work more viciously at her hair, ignoring him.

“Evelyn,” he said again as he took a knee in front of her and placed his hands on the arms of her chair, “I don’t know what the demon showed you, but it wasn’t real.”

“Does that matter?” Evelyn said, still not looking at him though his face was so close to hers, and finally working the knot from her hair. 

“No,” he replied, “You must keep reminding yourself, though.”

Evelyn finally dared to look at him. Her eyes traveled from his eyes, the white and irises as they should be, to his skin—pink with good health and not mottled with disease. As she looked at his throat, uncut, his breath became shallow but she was so lost in her assessment of him that she did not notice. Evelyn was too consumed by taking in his alive-ness and undoing the image that the demon had shown of him. She put a hand to his face, wanting to feel the fullness of it in her hand, and he took in a sharp breath through his nose. When she had held his face against her chest as the oil poured out of him, it had felt so sharp and inhuman. Now, as her thumb moved slowly from the line of his jaw up to the contour of his cheekbone, she could feel only softness and warmth. He closed his eyes beneath her touch. Her hand moved to his hair, brushing gently along his hairline, then sunk softly through the waves of it; his hair had looked so ashen and dirty but before her now it was thick and golden-toned. His jaw tightened as her fingers left his hair and began to run down his ear to this throat where she lingered for a moment. Her thumb stroked the front of it then wandered across it—relief flooding her from the feeling of his pulse fluttering underneath her fingers. She then moved to the back of his neck to take in the curve of his nape. With fervor, now, and without thinking, her hand slipped beneath his tunic to feel the muscle of his shoulder. Cullen’s head fell forward, nearly into Evelyn’s lap, as her hands took in the small purchase of skin that she could reach. 

Suddenly, Cullen looked up at her and her hand shot back to her, unsure of its wandering. He grabbed it from her, almost greedy, and held it to his face again. 

“Before Kirkwall, a demon took hold of my mind at the Circle,” he said, his voice hard but his eyes were warm with light, “It made me watch things, made me do things. I thought that I would never come back from it, but I did.”

“How?” Evelyn said, her voice barely audible.

“I fought it every day. For years. You will have to fight, too,” he sounded as though he was nearly begging her for something and she turned her head away from him. 

“You are stronger than any demon, Evelyn,” he said, gently pulling her back to look at him. 

“I hurt you, Cullen,” she whispered, a desperation rising in her to tell him the truth, “The demon put you before me and made me put a knife to your throat. I held you as you died.”

“Yet here I am—alive,” he said, his eyes nearly devouring in Evelyn in their intensity. 

“Yet here you are,” she breathed as the demon’s image tried to work back into her mind. 

Evelyn did not know who closed the gap between them, but the moment that her sentence ended, it was met with Cullen’s mouth against hers. Whether it was her or him, it did not matter. They were both moving against each other with nearly frenzied need immediately. She slipped her hand from his and buried herself into the curls at his nape, lifting his face closer to her. He held her gently at her throat with one hand while his other arm laid itself along the chair as he relaxed into her. It was not enough for either of them. In unison, Cullen pulled her back from the chair and she fell against him as they both came to the floor. Cullen kept himself upright with one arm behind him and the other holding Evelyn firmly at her nape as Evelyn sat over his hips, her hands working underneath the collar of his tunic to feel his chest breathing beneath her. The fire bathed them in warm orange light and the whistle of Frostback wind keened at the windows as they made impassioned work of each other. Cullen moved underneath her to put both hands to the small of her back and Evelyn arched into the pressure of them as he took in the curves of her hips, back, and shoulder. She took to his throat with her lips, yearning to feel the pulse there again, and she marveled at the tautness of his skin and its smelling of pine and smoke. He sunk into the crook of her neck, a groan burying itself there, holding her at her neck and back. At once, he turned her over onto her back and their legs braided together; one of his hands kept to her hair and the other came to the front of her hip firmly. Evelyn felt the pulling of her core at the sensation of his thigh pressed against her, bringing a lightness to her head. She pulled away his tunic and nearly sank her nails into his back as they dove over and over back into each other; their hands were everywhere: back, hips, shoulders, breasts, throats. He began to work at the buttons of her tunic and the moment that it opened up to him, his hand took to her like hot iron. His hand was rough from the calluses of his work and Evelyn moaned from the texture of it against the soft skin of her belly. The sound further unlaced him and his thumb slipped under the banding that held her breast. Chills burst all over her body as it dragged achingly slow underneath the curve of one of her breasts and she moaned again. Cullen nearly collapsed into her from the wanting of her cry and he ravished at her neck as she squirmed beneath him. The demon’s image would have no power over her now as she drank in the vitality of him, she thought. But then, before she could push it down, its words came to her. 

She began pushing at him, away from her, and he pulled back with a look of bewilderment as he panted—his lips swollen and his hair mussed. 

“Get off,” she said quickly, moving out from underneath him.

“Evelyn?” he asked, his eyes flying open in confusion.

“No,” Evelyn cried.

The devastated look on his face took the air out of Evelyn’s lungs. Hurriedly, he pulled back on his tunic as Evelyn began to shakily button hers back together.

“We can’t do this, Cullen,” she said, burying her face in her hands.

 _See how you will break this man_. 

“Have I done something?” Cullen asked and his voice sounded small, tight.

_See how you will misguide him._

“No,” she forced as she pressed herself harder against her hands—wanting to block out the light of the fireplace, needing to disappear. 

_Let her behold the spoils of her wanting._

“What is it, Evelyn?” he asked, sounding almost fearful, moving towards her as if to take her in his arms again. 

She kept her eyes closed and pushed against him.

“You need to leave,” she whispered.

“Do you want me to?” he breathed, still catching his breath. 

The question wounded her almost as much as her answer. 

“Yes,” Evelyn said quickly. 

She felt him hesitate, the heat of his hand moving towards her as though he meant to comfort her, then pulled his hand away, and he stood up. The door shut behind him in an instant. Evelyn never moved from the floor after his departure and awoke the next morning beside the last choking embers of her fire in the hearth. 


	11. Chapter 11

Although Evelyn had promised that she would visit Hattie that morning, she did not. The idea of coming across the Commander turned her stomach over with sick. So she elected to remain in her quarters throughout the day, sending word to Josephine that she would conduct work from there. Messenger after messenger came to her door, Evelyn would read reports, write her own, send them away, wait for them to return. The day passed quietly this way. Blackwall had tried to visit her, but she sent him away. The Iron Bull had come by, asking for a game of cards, and she declined. Solas did visit with her, briefly, with more of his elixir but he seemed to sense her need for solitude and made quick leave of himself. Eventually, no more messengers came. Evelyn sat at her desk, the plate of food from Hattie still untouched and starting to stink, and thought to write to Hiram but decided against it. She settled to put herself to bed, knowing sleep would not come to her, and stared at the fire from her bed as it glowed weakly in the hearth. 

Her memory kept returning her to the previous night. She could still feel Cullen’s touch on her, smell him on her skin. The Commander, who was so often silent in her company; The Commander, who had come looking for her when she meant to hide from everyone; The Commander, who would look away when her tunic would rise up when they dueled; The Commander, who had held her as she wept; The Commander, who had kissed her, begged her to not let Envy consume her. Yet she had let it—allowed its voice to make her send him away. 

“Hello,” came Cole’s voice suddenly but softly. He was sitting on the floor at the foot of her bed and held long braids of grass in his hands, diligently braiding them together. 

“Cole,” Evelyn said, startled but not cross with him, “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. Away. But always here,” he said as though it answered her question.

Evelyn did not say anything but turned over to watch him in his weaving. 

“He understands but is confused in his hurting. Warm fire, you smell good...like earth, like cold…” Cole murmured.

Evelyn sat up quickly, “Cole, what are you saying?”

“Envy grows like a stain on you because you let it. She must fight it, he says. She is strong. Solas says so, too. He was kind to me today when I let him see me,” Cole continued.

Evelyn was reeling from the bizarre speech.

“Wanting to be here, remembering is hard, hurting, too much,” Cole said, suddenly looking up from his lengths of grass. 

“What are you doing?” Evelyn whispered, almost fearful.

“Hearing him,” he said simply, looking at her with curiosity. 

Evelyn did not know what to say and could only ogle at the boy as he took back to his weaving.

“You should sleep now,” he murmured.

She turned onto her back, her head still swimming, but inexplicably, Evelyn felt herself falling asleep. 

The next morning, Cole was gone but had left her a small wreath of his braided grass at the foot of her bed. She felt better, her head did not ache as it had all of yesterday, but she still planned to spend the day again in her quarters again. As she began to prepare a message for Josephine, a messenger came to the door. 

“Templars are here, Herald,” he said, “Meeting in the council room.”

Evelyn knew that this moment would come soon but her stomach seemed to fill with rocks at his words. She nodded at him and he left hurriedly. Quickly, she worked at her hair again with the brush until it seemed there was more hair in it than on her head, but it felt soft again. She went to the small washing bowl in the corner of her room and hurriedly scrubbed her face. Then, as her chest began to rise and fall with panic, she made for the Chantry. It was still dark, though the nightingale began to sing, and a few stars still lingered in the sky. Most were still asleep and the quiet of Haven made the pounding in her ears louder. As Evelyn entered the chantry, she tried to calm herself. The rocks in her stomach had taken flight and her nerves were eating at her. With a deep breath, she entered the council room.

She took a quick inventory of the room. The room still felt heavy with a sense of night not yet having woken to the day. Her advisors stood in their usual spots, in light conversation, but Cullen had not yet arrived. Perhaps he was too busy with the Templars, she hoped. 

“Ah, Herald,” Josephine began looking to her, “Are you feeling better?”

She merely nodded.

“Good,” Josephine smiled, though it fell a little as her eyes made notice of Evelyn’s disheveled state, “As you know, the Templars have arrived.”

“We should journey to the Temple as soon as possible,” Cassandra said quickly, coming to the table map to begin planning their approach. 

“We must wait until the lyrium arrives,” Leliana replied, “It will be here by midday. Then, we may travel to the Temple, Herald. At your discretion.”

Cassandra huffed but it did not phase Leliana.

“As soon as the lyrium arrives, then,” Evelyn nodded, the words sounded almost strangled in her throat. 

“Herald,” Cassandra said, hesitating for a moment, “Do you feel ready?”

“Yes,” Evely said quickly, though she did not know how honest it was.

Cassandra nodded slowly at her but looked Evelyn up and down with her eyes. 

The door opened behind Evelyn and every vertebra in her lit up with a shiver at the feeling of Cullen’s presence entering the room. She could feel him like she sometimes felt magic—an inexplicable and electric pulling in the air. Though he was at a distance, it felt as though he was close enough to have his hands settled on her hips with his lips pressed to her nape. She fought to keep from visibly shuddering from the intensity of it as he moved behind her to come around the table. As he passed, the hair on her neck stood up.

“The Herald would like to proceed with the Templars as soon as the lyrium arrives, Commander,” Josephine told him as he took his place. 

“They will be ready,” Cullen said and his voice was hoarse. It tore through Evelyn with such a ferocity that her chest clenched up. She could not bring herself to look at him and instead stared down at the table map. 

“I will notify the Chantry,” Josephine said and a sense of finality came over the room.

“It is truly happening, then?” Cassandra murmured.

Evelyn finally dared a look to Cullen, desperate to see if she could read how he was feeling or what he was thinking, and the sight of him made her legs suddenly grow incredibly cold. The torch behind him illuminated his silhouette and his face was saturated with shadow. He looked exhausted as his eyes gazed at the floor; they were heavy—flat. His brow was creased in thought but he looked almost as if he was in pain. With his arms crossed against his chest, in his armor, he looked impossibly big. The feeling of his weight against her came back in a rush and it immediately pulled at her core with wanting, startling her. Feeling Evelyn’s stare, he looked up and held her eye for only a moment before she quickly looked away. His eyes were dark but he looked at her with such intensity that she felt as though he had pressed her up against the wall. 

“Maker guide us,” Leliana whispered.

Leliana’s voice pulled her back to the memory of the demon taking her shape, reciting the Canticle of Maferath, and Evelyn had to shut her eyes for a moment as she fought against it. 

“And may Andraste preserve us,” Josephine replied. 

  
  


After the lyrium arrived, they made for the Temple quickly to seal the Breach. In the organized chaos of the moment, Evelyn did not have to come face-to-face with Cullen again as he saw to the Inquisition forces and the Templars. Now, Evelyn looked out over Haven as its occupants celebrated their victory and struggled to share their joy. True, the healed sky was a welcome sight, but there was still so much to be done. Tonight was cause for celebration, the Herald did not fault them for their revelry, but Evelyn had already begun thinking of what had to be done next and there was nothing joyful to be found there. She let herself wonder where Cullen was for a brief moment—if he was celebrating with his troops after a much-needed victory. 

“Herald,” Cassandra said, approaching from behind her, “Why have you not joined the others?”

She sat beside Evelyn and they both looked out as people stumbled in and out of the tavern and music drifted from its windows. 

“I did,” Evelyn replied, “I suppose that I don’t feel cause to celebrate just yet.”

“I understand,” the Seeker replied with a sigh. 

“There’s still so much to do, Cassandra,” Evelyn murmured, lifting her knees to her chest.

Cassandra nodded her head and gave Evelyn a tentative pat on her back. It was unexpected, but it made Evelyn smile however weakly. 

“It was a victory, Herald, it would serve us well to not lose sight of that.”

The two sat together in comfortable silence, as they had on the journey back from Therinfal Redoubt, and Evelyn became overwhelmed with sudden gratitude for Cassandra. Though there was always a small pull of resistance between them, the Seeker had become someone Evelyn would trust with her life. Cassandra had fought for the Inquisition, fought for Evelyn at its Herald; she had entrusted their task to a mage regardless of the Chantry’s reproach. Cassandra had given up so much to do what was right and Evelyn had come to respect her greatly for it. The moment that Evelyn thought to say this out loud to Cassandra, the bell of the Chantry began ringing and its sound beat against the air. There was a commotion down below and she saw soldiers running towards the gate. Panic quickly stole all the happiness out of the air and people began to run towards the Chantry in confusion. Cassandra and Evelyn shot up together and began sprinting down to the commotion when Cullen came running from the direction of the trebuchets.

“Forces approaching!” he shouted, “To arms!”

Then, Evelyn heard it and her soul shrank in her body. She had never heard such a sound and it nearly exsanguinated both the blood and magic from her body. It was worse than the sound that she heard in her ears when a Terror came out of a rift. It was worse than the sound that she had heard at the Temple of Sacred Ashes when the man beside her was crushed by a meteor. It was the very sound of hell, a thousand marching boots, coming down the Frostbacks. The people of Haven began screaming and it took her breath; whatever was coming she would not be able to protect them. Cassandra grabbed her arm and it brought her back into the world. They rushed to the gates where Cullen and Josephine stood talking hurriedly.

“No banner?” Josephine said in disbelief. 

As Evelyn went to climb up the scaffolding of the main gate to see for herself, the gate to Haven lit up in red light and pounded like a heart.

“If someone could open this gate, I’d appreciate it,” came a scathing voice from beyond it.

A soldier opened the door and both Cullen and Evelyn came rushing forward to the sight of the Tevinter mage that she had met in Redcliffe, Dorian, collapsed onto his knees on the ground with a circle of bodies around him. 

“My apologies, didn’t think I needed an invitation,” he laughed then collapsed, Cullen just barely managing to catch him.

“Dorian, what is happening?” she asked, her voice shrill. 

“It is the Venatori. Under the service of someone called the Elder One. They were already marching on Haven. I risked my life to get here,” he replied, pushing himself up from Cullen’s grasp and leaning onto his staff. 

“Cullen?!” she asked, not caring that the fear in her voice was apparent. 

She turned to him as he stared out to the mountain where the forces were pouring down as a hoard; she could see his calculating. 

“Get to the trebuchet and hit that force,” he said with authority then turned to his soldiers, “Get all the villagers to the Chantry! Now!”

The force of his voice brought blood back into Evelyn’s legs. Cassandra came rushing forward to the Herald and they began running to the trebuchet. Evelyn could hear the Commander still shouting behind her, rallying the troops, and she dared a look back. He held up his sword to the sky and they shouted back to him, beating their swords against their shields, and a ferocity rose up in her as she turned her head away. 

They immediately fell into battle once making it to the trebuchet. Evelyn lost all sense of herself, and as she had at the Temple, she was merely a conduit for her magic to coarse through. She was barely aware of her surroundings save for her enemies but would catch flashes of familiar bodies—Iron Bull’s great horns, the glint of Blackwall’s griffin armor, the plaidweave of Sera’s pants. It was not until after they beat back the waves of Venatori and she released the trebuchet into the invading forces that she realized every one of her companions stood with her. She heard the soldiers celebrate behind her as they watched an avalanche engulf the mountainside but before she could call for them to run to the Chantry, a hurling ball of fire struck down the trebuchet. A splintered plank of wood came flying at her, engulfed in fire, and threw her backwards. Evelyn felt her back collide forcefully against the edge of a crate, her head violently bending back at her neck against it, and the world blacked for a moment. When she came to only a moment later, her ears were ringing; the world was a blur of falling ash and snow. There was fire all around her. Somebody was lifting her up—Solas?

“Herald!” he cried, his lips pressed to the Herald’s ear, “To the Chantry!”

Evelyn began running, though her legs felt like stilts beneath her, and she could hardly keep her balance. Sera came to her side, wrapping her arm around Evelyn’s waist. In her daze, it brought her back to the night that they ran from the Commander’s tent together as their sides split in laughter. There was a rushing of air above them and it felt as strong as the straight-line winds of the Storm Coast. A massive shadow crossed over them and Varric began shouting curses. A dragon. And it screamed with the voices of every life that it had ever taken. They closed in on the gate where Cullen stood yelling and waving them in. She let the others rush past her to follow the Commander then stood frozen as she looked around at Haven in ruins around her. Half of the bodies didn’t even have armour on them. She heard a cry from a burning building to her left and her legs began moving her to it as though disconnected from the rest of her. Bull was suddenly beside her, kicking the door down, and she rushed forward to pick up the man in her arms as he sputtered for breath. 

“Look for survivors,” she roared at her companions. The voice didn’t sound like her own.

They collected who they could, those that were undoubtedly alive. At first, she was running to every body downed in the snow, checking hopelessly for pulses, but Blackwall tore her away. She could not bear the thought of letting someone shudder out their death into the cold. When they finally burst into the Chanty, carrying those they managed to rescue, Evelyn nearly collapsed. To enter in this holy place—this place that had once reminded her of her home, the place that _had_ become home—after running past the bodies of her people, it made her feel unworthy of its warmth. Dorian sat with Chancellor Roderick against the wall; his face was ashen. It stopped her in her tracks.

“He fought a Venatori,” Dorian said softly to the Herald, “A brave man.”

Evelyn thought to drop beside the Chancellor and take his hand. It was the kind of grace that the Maker would ask of her to show the dying man, but she was interrupted by Cullen charging down the hallway. He was saying so much and her ears were still ringing. She felt the wetness of blood at the back of her head. _Haven wouldn’t make it. No one could have anticipated a dragon. They kept advancing_. Dorian spoke of the Elder One again, as if it meant anything to them, how it wanted _her_. 

“Fine,” Evelyn snapped, “Then let’s give him what he wants.”

“Evelyn,” Cullen said, sounding like the air had been knocked out of him, “No.”

“Funny, you didn’t strike me much as a quitter,” the Tevinter said sharply to her, throwing a pointed look. 

“I will not sit here waiting for all of you to die,” she yelled, turning on Cullen, “If he just wants me then—”

“I will _not_ offer you up like an animal for sacrifice,” Cullen interrupted furiously as his nostrils flared. 

“Cullen,” she spat back, “I will give my life if it will save all of you. That is _my_ choice.”

“Rather dramatic…” Dorian murmured, his comment ignored as the Commander and Herald stared each other down. Then, more loudly, “ _Ahem!_ May I remind you, this Elder God doesn’t seem particularly merciful.”

“We’re dying, but we can decide how,” the Commander said, his voice quieter but still hard, “Those trebuchets slowed him. If we could strike him once more, we could gain an advantage.”

The Chancellor croaked beside Dorian and they all looked to him.

“There is a path. You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could tell you.”

He rose from the chair and Evelyn moved to help him. He steadied himself against her shoulder. 

“Chancellor, what are you saying?” Evelyn asked, turning on him quickly and away from the Commander’s burning expression. 

“If this simple memory can save us,” he continued, his breath coming out in shallow bursts, “This could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more.”

Angry tears came to Evelyn’s eyes as the Chancellor’s words pushed her closer to the brink. She believed in the Maker, she was a faithful Andrastian, but this was too much. This was the stuff of Chantry tales. With the Chancellor looking at her with such hope...she felt as she did when she first awoke in Haven. She was too small, too weak for what the Maker was asking her to be.

“Take them, Cullen,” she said hoarsely, fighting back the swell of emotions in the back of her throat, “I will use the trebuchets to give you time.”

Dorian rose to take the Chancellor’s arm around his shoulders. 

“Maker guide you, Chancellor Roderick,” Evelyn whispered.

With his free hand, he took Evelyn’s beaconed hand. 

“And you, Herald,” he breathed. 

Evelyn began to make for the door quickly, not daring to look behind her. 

“Herald!” Cullen called after her and she picked up her pace. She could hear him coming up behind her. 

“Evelyn,” he cried, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. 

They came face to face and Evelyn could hardly stand to look at him. He was glowering down on her but his eyes were frantically moving across hers. 

“If you don’t come back to us…” he began, but his breath caught the sentence in his throat.

“Cullen, don’t,” she begged. She wouldn’t do this here— _couldn’t_ do this here. 

He pressed his hand to her face and his fingers were firm against her face. Her fury with him dissipated immediately. Maker, how she wanted to close her eyes and sink into his palm. How desperately she wanted to collapse into him. She put her hand against his chest and felt his heart beating wildly underneath her palm.

“Go,” she said after only a second, fighting the urge to let the moment last any longer, and pushing his hand away.

And he did. 

“Inquisition,” he called, turning away from her, “Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry! Move!”

She took off back into Haven without looking back.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Graphic depiction of injury.

When Evelyn awoke after falling into the underbelly of Haven, she felt nothing other than what she thought was fire consuming her left shoulder. Standing up was excruciating as the weight of her arm shifted, and she quickly realized that it was dangling from its socket. A cry shook from her as she attempted to hold her arm against her chest to steady it. She began to walk weakly, to distract herself from the incredible pain radiating throughout her body, but could not orient herself. Her armor was badly damaged; her staff was lost. When she came across the first few demons, weaponless and wounded, a sense of hopelessness consumed her, but the mark tore open in her hand. A rift split through the air, claiming the demons into its fold, and closed. 

She continued on until she met snow and the world opened up into the Frostbacks, bitterly cold and unrelenting. Each step felt more impossible than the last. Once, she met something beneath her foot, and without her lame arm to catch her, she pitched forward in the snow and had to crawk back up to standing by her belly and right arm. What she kept walking for, she did not know. It was futile to search for the Inquisition out in the wilderness; she did not even know the direction she walked in. But her legs kept her marching, ceaselessly, against the snow. Like the ptarmigan, she pushed ever forward. 

She stopped trying to think about how long she had been walking or how long it had been since she fell through the shaft into the crypts of Haven. Time no longer had a measurement here where she was now. The sky felt bigger than the expanse of ground ahead of her. The world could tip her upside down to let her freefall into the Heavens and she would be content if it meant no more walking. Yes, freefalling would be a welcome change. Her steps were now a shuffle as she was unable to lift her knees. Feeling had been lost to her entire body, even the arm hanging out of its socket, and it was hard to close her eyes. They burned; they felt sharp with ice. 

_ You could lay down, you know?  _ A voice came to her. She could not place it.  _ Wouldn’t that be nice? You could rest, right there in the snow, and let the Fade take you into dreams.  _ Evelyn couldn’t fight it. She had never wanted something more—rest. When was it that she had last rested? Truly?  _ That’s it, Evelyn, you are so tired.  _ Evelyn felt herself lurching but her legs continued to move underneath her, however slowly.  _ You needn’t be afraid.  _ Evelyn managed only a few more steps before she sunk to her knees and fell forward. 

Cullen began pacing the camp the second that they had begun setting up tents. There was an upset of emotion within him that could hardly be contained: tension, worry, grief, anger, devastation. He had let her go. Maker, he had  _ let  _ her go and face the Elder One—alone. And he had to do it. 

So, now he paced, from one end of the gorge where they had set up camp to the other end—praying that the Maker would guide her to his place. The reality of the situation felt worse than any sword that had bled him. No one could have survived the avalanche that the Inquisition watched consume Haven as they made out of it. The image of the dragon bursting into the sky began to gnaw at him, festering in his chest, as he paced. He tried to think of her, alive and warm beneath his hands, and it brought only more grief. 

When Evelyn had arrived at Haven after the events with the Lord Seeker, he had never seen in her in such a state of disrepair. He knew that the journey back had been hard, but the shadows under her eyes, the unkemptness of her hair, and the grayness of her skin nearly drained him of his own life to see. Cassandra’s report of what had happened with the demon had been devastating; he knew intimately of that kind of torture. Then, to see her like that, he only wanted to take her in his arms as he did the night that he found her in the stable. 

Some hours after they had adjourned for the night so that the Herald could rest, Cullen had gone to her quarters though he had no idea what he thought he meant to do. He did not wish to disturb her if she was sleeping, though he doubted that she was, but he also desperately wanted to speak with her. In the weeks that she had been absent from Haven, he felt nearly tormented by his thinking of her. Yet when he arrived outside her door, he could not bring himself to knock. Rather he took up post as though he meant to guard her door against anything that might try to cross her threshold and it brought him some relief to think of himself protecting her from harm—however small—for as many times as he had put her into it. 

Then, though he had thought of it so many times, to actually feel her beneath him and to be taking her in his hands, it had breathed a life into him that he had long given up on. It was what he wanted the moment that she appeared before him at the Temple, though he hardly dared admit it to himself. It was inappropriate, much too fast. He knew it the moment that she pushed him away and told him to leave. He had overstepped, let himself go too far with his desiring. Yet even now he ached at the idea of never again feeling her flush against him as her hips parted over his own. He thought of how her lips moved so softly but intently against his own. How her hands felt as they moved across his back. 

“Commander,” came the sharp voice of Cassandra from a few meters behind him, “I am taking watch. Join me.”

He waited for her, rather irritated to be pulled from his thoughts of Evelyn, and walked with her to the north end of the gorge. Neither spoke but Cullen could feel the tension radiating from Cassandra. As they came to where one of his soldiers had set up a small oil lamp from a hook, both of them stared out into the abyss of snow and dark. 

“She will come back to us,” Cassandra said, trying to sound resolute but her voice broke. 

Cullen could only manage to nod his head. 

After hours of sitting in silence with the Seeker, he saw it: a faint glimmer in the distance. His breath hitched in his throat. Cassandra seemed to take note of it at precisely the same moment and they both began sprinting forward towards it. As they drug themselves through the snow with all the force that they could muster, they closed the distance quickly and Cullen could see a body slumped over into the snow. 

“There,” he yelled over the roar of the snow, “It’s her!”

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra cried. 

Quickly, they began to frantically work her out of the hard snow that she was half-buried in. Cullen could hear more voices approaching and calling to them. His fingers moved to Evelyn’s throat reflexively but he snapped his hand back as though bitten. That he might find no pulse there, no life—he could not do it. Rather, he lifted her up into his arms and began trudging back to camp as her body lay cold and unmoving against him. 

Evelyn could see only black but she heard voices. She felt as though she were hanging upside down. 

“Somebody get that blasted Templar to stop pacing."

Evelyn tried to open her mouth to speak but only a faint groan came out. Every part of her body was in excruciating pain as though covered in embers. She could hardly manage to open her eyes and only saw the blur of bodies moving around her. Confused, she tried to reach her hand out; then, she screamed from the agony of it. A flurry of noises suddenly burst around her—more voices.

“She’s awake!

“Get out!”

“What’s happening?!”

“Leave us!”

Evelyn tried to pull herself forward. Wherever she was, she needed to run. She didn’t know who these people were arguing. She must have been taken. She had to flee. Her eyes could make nothing out, only shapes and colors. Their voices came as hazy, warbled droning. Her body was  _ burning _ . One of her legs slipped down from whatever she was laying on to meet the floor but it wasn’t her leg. There was no sensation—only a strange, heavy pressure. With everything she could, Evelyn tried to throw herself over but it was as though her body was not her own. Nothing was responding to her. She began crying, overwhelmed and afraid.

“Evelyn!”

“Get out!”

Someone was picking up her leg and she begged her body to kick at whoever it was but to no avail. Another groan came from her but the sound of it pounded at the inside of her head. A light pressure came to her chest, trying to hold her down, and her arm flew up—finally heeding her—clawing at the face of whoever was touching her. 

“Evelyn, you must calm down. You’re hurt.”

“Get that apostate in here!”

Their words were coming more clearly now but her heart was still flying around in her chest like a frenzied animal. Someone was firmly holding her arm to their chest. Still fighting, she tried to lift her other arm but her body let out a scream instead. 

“Stop doing that!”

“Step aside.”

Suddenly, another hand was on her. It was pressed softly to her head and a rushing feeling came over her body. It felt like a warm wind in her veins. The burning of her body began to abate, leaving only an aching. Her arm went slack in the grip of whoever was holding it. The other hand moved to her chest and her heart began to calm. Whimpering in relief, she let it consume her. Finally, her eyes seemed able to open though still blurred in their vision. Solas was standing over her; it was his hands over her heart. With the last energy she felt slipping from her body, she turned to whoever held her arm. Before she could make out their shape, the world slipped away.

When Evelyn woke again, her body was no longer burning but pain radiated everywhere. She managed to open her eyes fully and make sense of her surroundings—a tent, Adan standing beside her corking a vial of something. 

“Adan?” she croaked to the herbalist.

“Are you going to attack us again?” he asked.

Evelyn didn’t know what he meant but could not manage to ask as her head felt swollen with pressure. Her eyes closed again from the pain of it. 

“You are awake,” Solas spoke from the front of the tent. Evelyn went to sit up but her ribs felt like prods inside her chest. 

“What...happened…” Evelyn managed to breathe out. Air was hardly able to fill her lungs.

“You were severely injured at Haven,” he said, looking down at her with a frown, “You should keep resting.”

Evelyn wanted to argue but she already felt tired from the few words that she had been able to speak. 

“How is she?” Evelyn heard Cullen’s voice outside of the tent.

“If it stops your infernal pacing, come see for yourself,” Adan said irritably. 

The tent’s entrance flapped as Cullen quickly entered. 

“She is getting her strength back,” Solas said to him, giving her an encouraging smile, “Adan, there are others who need attending to in the camp. Let us see to them.”

A grumble came from the herbalist as he followed Solas out of the tent. Evelyn was fighting to keep her eyes openas she felt darkness pulling at the corners of her vision. 

“Cullen?” she rasped. 

He appeared in an instant at her side and she noticed small red welts all over his cheek.

“Oh, Maker,” she said, “Did I do that?”

“You were…” Cullen said, looking embarrassed, “confused.”

Evelyn tried to apologize but only a wheeze came out. It shook the shards of ribs in her chest and she yelped in pain. Immediately, Cullen had his hand to her hair trying to hush her. 

“You need to rest,” he said.

The feeling of his hand stroking along her hairline made her eyes heavy. 

“Is this alright?” he asked.

Evelyn could only nod her head as she fell back to sleep. 

The next time Evelyn awoke, she felt a bit more like herself. She hurt all over, but she was able to push herself up. The burning in her shoulder was still as painful as it had been when she first regained consciousness in the crypts under Haven. She was alone in the tent but heard voices outside of it.

“I will not be able to set the bone,” Solas said.

“I can’t do it,” Adan replied, “I’m just an herbalist.”

“Well, it will need to be set,” came the familiar gruffness of Blackwall’s voice.

“Solas, is there anything you can do?” Cullen said. 

“I can make it more comfortable for her, perhaps,” he replied, “But that is all.”

“Maker. This is really the only way?” Evelyn could hear the irritation in Cullen’s voice.

“I’ve done it before, Commander. It will be quick, I promise.” Blackwall replied. 

Evelyn managed to bring herself up to sit at the end of the rough cot that she laid upon as the men entered the tent. 

“Evelyn, lay back down,” Cullen began but was interrupted by Blackwall.

“No, she’ll need to be sitting,” the Grey Warden said. 

A grimace grew on Cullen’s face as he looked at Blackwall. 

“What is going on?” Evelyn asked.

“We have to put your shoulder back in place, my lady,” Blackwall said as he came to stand in front of her.

Just the sentence alone made her injury sting sharply and her stomach turn.

“I can make it marginally less painful for you, Herald,” Solas said, seeing her distress.

Evelyn only nodded, biting her lip, and Solas settled a hand on her forehead again. Her body became warm and her muscles seemed to loosen under his touch. 

“You will need to take off your tunic,” Blackwall said, “I need to see it.”

Evelyn began to work at the remaining buttons of her tattered tunic but hissed in pain as she tried to pull it from her good shoulder. Blackwall made a move to help her but Cullen stepped behind her, taking the collar of the tunic into his hands.

“I’ve got it,” he said sharply. 

Slowly, he worked the shirt down over her shoulders and she tried to not close her eyes at the sensation of his fingers once again traveling her skin. His breath was soft on the back of her neck. Once free of the tunic, Evelyn was horrified by the state of her body. Every inch of her was some unnatural color: purple, yellow, black, blue. Cullen sucked in a breath from behind her, also startled by it. The worst of it, though, was the little that she could see of her yellow, swollen, and disfigured shoulder from the corner of her eye. 

“Ooph,” Blackwall said empathetically, “You might want to hold her, Commander.”

“Erm,” Cullen hesitated.

“Just watch my ribs,” Evelyn said quietly. 

Evelyn closed her eyes as Cullen slipped his arm around her waist to hold her firmly against him and the cot beneath her. Blackwall picked up her hand in his and began to stretch it out in front of her. Immediately, the pain brought tears to her eyes.

“Solas?” she breathed.

“I did say marginally less painful,” he said, sounding regretful.

Blackwall continued to move the arm around, looking for the line into the socket, and Evelyn tried to still herself against Cullen. It was agonizing, even with the aid that Solas offered, and her breaths came shuddering through her. 

“Alright,” Blackwall said, his entire face scrunched in rapt attention to his work, “Got it. Hold tight.”

Without any warning, Blackwall shoved, bent, and lifted her bone back into the socket and it nearly blacked Evelyn out. She felt her mouth open to cry out but her ears, so filled with blood, could not even hear her own cry. Blackwall gently set her hand to her lap as she gasped for breath—her head spinning. Not fully letting go of her, Cullen loosened his grip and kept a hand to her hip as she panted. 

“Good work.” Blackwall congratulated. 

Evelyn nodded her head, “Thank you, Blackwall.”

With a small bow, he left the tent.

“Drink this,” Adan said, handing her a vial, “Then I need to wrap you.”

“I will fetch a new tunic for you, Herald,” Solas said. 

As Evelyn downed Adan’s potion, the herbalist turned to a small crate and began rifling through it. Evelyn started to breathe normally though the pain was still stunning. 

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked gently.

Exhausted, Evelyn fell back into Cullen. She was too tired to think about whether she should or not and she was desperate for some small comfort. While Adan still had his back to them, Cullen moved his hand softly up her back to her good shoulder as he pressed his lips to the back of her head. Her eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of him. 

“Alright, then,” Adan said, turning to them with strips of fabric, and Cullen’s hand slipped away from her. 

Once Solas had returned with a tunic for Evelyn, they wrapped her arm to her in a rather sadly-fashioned sling. 

“Back to rest now, Herald,” Adan said.

As Cullen assisted Evelyn in her slow descent back down to the cot, an Inquisition soldier appeared inside the tent. 

“Seeker Pentaghast has requested for you, ser.”

“I will be with her shortly,” Cullen nodded.

He looked to Evelyn, his eyes pouring over her face with concern, and she gave him a small smile.

“Go on,” she said, “I’ll be here.”

For the first time since she had awoken, his brow unfurrowed and the lines of his face softened. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze then left to speak with Cassandra. 


	13. Chapter 13

Once Evelyn was better able to walk, the Inquisition marched to the location that Solas had told her of on the outskirts of the Frostback Basin. The bruises on her body changed colors as though they were paints being mixed, causing her a great deal of discomfort, but slowly, it was beginning to feel like her body again. Still, everyone was constantly pestering her: _How are you feeling? Is it your shoulder? Do you need a poultice? Let’s stop for the night; you need rest._ The worst of it came from Hattie, who had nearly bowled her over in a hug the moment that they reunited in camp and had hardly left Evelyn out of her sight as they journeyed to Skyhold, and Cassandra. It seemed the Seeker was always at her elbow, watching each step that Evelyn took with the intensity of a hawk, as though Evelyn could have been swallowed up by the earth beneath them at any moment. In addition to the constant attention from Hattie and Cassandra, it felt as though the whole camp was constantly looking to her, whispering about her. Like it had been when she first awoke in Haven, their awe of her made her painfully uncomfortable. Evelyn often scouted further ahead to avoid their collective gaze, but frustratingly, it would tire her so much that she would have to rest until the camp caught up to her. 

Cullen had made himself scarce since she had seen him in the tent—whether duty or otherwise. Truthfully, Evelyn was grateful for it. She was not sure what to say to him or if there was anything to say at all. There had been a few conversations between them since she had recovered, but about nothing other than recollecting Inquisition forces and resources. It was for the best, she thought, that things went left unsaid. Her feelings were complicated. The sight of him brought her both a sense of great wanting and stomach-turning anxiety. Sometimes, after retiring to her tent for the evening, she had half a mind to leave to find him but the demon’s words would fill her head until the impulse perished. 

As for what she surmised of his feelings, Evelyn had very little to form her opinion on. He was always busy—so busy that he often sent one of his lieutenants in his place to meet with her and her advisors. The few times that they had seen one another during their march, he would inquire about her shoulder, give a small smile, then excuse himself. Once, while briefly speaking in passing, he placed his hand softly to her arm. Before she could react, he took it away and was off in an instant. 

Now, at Skyhold, Evelyn now serving as the Inquisitor, it appeared that they would never happen across each other in the castle’s enormity—all massive corridors, winding staircases, and vaulted ceilings. She had secretly hoped that their training would resume once they settled, but no note came and she did not want to ask. Still wanting to get better with her swordwork, though, she had asked Iron Bull who spent his days down in the training yard watching Cassandra shred through strawmen with her sword. It had been folly from the start; The Bull could not help but overpower her in every round. Blackwall intervened quickly when he happened upon the scene while passing from the blacksmith back to the stables and offered his assistance. Since then, she spent her afternoons with him under the scrutinizing gaze of Cassandra, who occasionally would shout criticisms of Evelyn’s slack wrist or poorly placed foot, and the wide grin of Iron Bull, who would heckle her so ruthlessly sometimes that both her and Blackwall could hardly see each other through the tears of their laughter. 

Though they had only been at Skyhold for a fortnight, Evelyn was beginning to grow comfortable. The events of Haven would often leave her startling from sleep in the middle of night, but as soon as she awoke in the room that Josephine had so carefully prepared for her, in the great and formidable fortress of Skyhold, she felt safe. Their arrival to Skyhold also had lended her an unexpected reprieve from constant traveling as her advisors reorganized the Inquisition. A massive influx of noble support, resources, pilgrims, and recruits had overwhelmed them since word traveled about the miracle of Evelyn’s survival after Haven. 

Thus, Evelyn found herself spending time with her companions as she had wanted to while they were at Haven. Vivienne had requested her assistance with some old tomes that the enchantress had been sent to translate and Evelyn had greatly enjoyed spending evenings discussing arcane theory with her. Afterwards, she would meet with Varric, Sera, and Bull in the tavern to talk cards, debauchery, and battle. Occasionally, Cole would join them—observing quietly but hanging onto Varric’s words with rapt attention. There had been some resistance to Cole’s presence once the others became aware of him, especially from Vivienne and Cassandra, but she and Solas refused to send him away. Evelyn had come to be incredibly fond of the bizarre but gentle spirit. Evelyn and Solas had discussed Cole’s telepathy and other curiosities of the Fade and magic at length when she came to visit him as he painted his mural in one of Skyhold’s wings. Occasionally, Dorian would breeze through and stop to join them. Evelyn had also grown to be partial to the mage’s smugness and wit and would often go out of her way to find him in the library where they would sort through the ancient collection that they had inherited in their occupation of Skyhold. Evelyn sensed a tenseness from him; it would occasionally manifest itself in a sharp remark or condescending raise of an eyebrow at her. It made her sad for him. She knew how it felt to not want to settle into a sense of belonging somewhere—as she presumed he did. 

Just tonight they had a small row over a particularly unsavory text about necromancy. Evelyn picked it up to sort it into a pile of texts that she wished to give to Minaeve for safe-keeping and Dorian had taken it as a condemnation of the material. She had tried to tell him it was only a matter of precaution but it seemed as it was too late to explain herself. Now, trying to shake off their argument, she made her way to meet her usual companions at the tavern. As she came upon the warmth of its light coming from the windows, the sound of robust laughter muffled inside its stonework, she heard raised voices coming from the armory. Rather than turning to the tavern, she jogged up to the armory’s door and quickly realized it was Cassandra.

“You asked for my opinion and I have given it,” she spat, “Why would you expect it to change?”

Evelyn was taken aback by the anger that tightened the Seeker’s voice. 

“I expect you to keep your word,” came Cullen’s voice, sounding haggard, “Would you rather save face than admit…”

Evelyn entered into the armory—her suspicion of information being withheld from her immediately flaring her temper. Immediately, the argument caught in the air and the room felt impossibly heavy. 

Cullen passed her, his head cast down, “Forgive me.”

Evelyn stared after him as he closed the armory door behind him and she quickly turned to Cassandra, “What is going on, Cassandra?”

The Seeker’s face was creased in her usual dour look. 

“Cullen has told you that he’s no longer taking lyrium?” she said. 

“No,” Evelyn said slowly, feeling like the air had suddenly become hard to breathe.

“Oh,” Cassandra said, her eyes widening, “He had assured me he would once we arrived to Skyhold.”

Evelyn could not manage a word from her mouth and the Seeker continued. 

“It should not have been kept from you, Inquisitor, but we had an agreement, long before you came to us, that I would watch him. As a Seeker, I could evaluate the dangers. Now, he is asking that I recommend a replacement for him.”

“What?” Evelyn reeled, “A replacement?”

“I refused. It is not necessary,” Cassandra said, “Besides, it would destroy him. He has come so far.”

“Why didn’t he tell me, Cassandra?” Evelyn said, the hurt in her voice apparent, and Cassandra looked at her sadly. 

“I believe that…” she said, more gently than Evelyn had ever heard her speak, “he did not want to risk your disappointment.”

“My disappointment—,” Evelyn began but the sentence fell short.

“Perhaps you could speak to him, Inquisitor. If he will listen to anyone, it would be you,” Cassandra said, giving Evelyn a consoling pat on her shoulder. 

Evelyn nodded and quickly made her leave towards Cullen’s quarters. Her head felt as though it was in a storm—her thoughts moved so furiously in her head that they became only a mess of emotions. Perhaps people called to her as she walked, but she could not hear them. Anger, heartache, confusion, hurt, all of it washed over her as each step brought her closer to his door. Once there, it all fell away the moment that she hesitantly put her hand to the knob. Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she opened it. A sudden crash of glass and something solid flew right past her head causing her to flinch violently away. 

“Maker’s breath, Evelyn,” Cullen cried, “I-”

Evelyn managed to open her eyes and was shocked at the state of Cullen. It had been some time since she had been this close to him. In the war room, he stood at a distance that left it impossible to take in the details of his face, and even then, it had been nearly a week since they had last convened there. Here, only a few feet from her, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the sallowness of his skin, and the slump of his shoulders beneath his pauldrons. It was overwhelming to take in and she felt nearly paralyzed; her legs were cold and the breath caught in her chest. 

“Forgive me,” he said, coming around his desk towards her.

Suddenly, Cullen nearly collapsed into the table with a strangled cry. Evelyn’s legs, taking a life of their own, moved to catch him by his arm. He steadied himself quickly and pushed her away. 

“I never meant for this to interfere,” he whispered.

“Talk to me, please,” Evelyn said as Cullen held himself up by the desk. 

“There is nothing to speak of,” he said harshly, turning away from her, “I have asked Cassandra to seek my replacement. I can no longer serve the Inquisition.”

Evelyn bristled at his tone but tried to calm herself, “That’s it?”

Cullen walked, nearly a limp, over to his window and slumped against it. 

“That’s it?” Evelyn asked again, her voice rising, “I believe that I deserve a bit more than your indignation and silence, Commander.”

The use of his title, after so long of not using it, made her wince. She was angry, but not so angry that she meant to reduce him back down to the stoic, withholding Templar that she had once known. It seemed to strike him—a tragic exhale muffled into the window. Regret grew hot in her chest. 

“You do,” he struggled, “You deserve much more.”

In an instant, Evelyn was beside him. Her hands were moving to his chest, to his face, to whatever she could reach as she begged him to look at her. 

“Evelyn,” he breathed, weakly trying to push her away. 

Finally, as her hand came to hold his jaw, he resigned himself from the struggle and put his hand to her wrist though he barely closed his fingers around it. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

The pained look that crossed his face as he finally met her eye nearly killed her.

“I should have,” he said. 

“That is not an answer.”

“I am not what I have led you to believe that I am,” he murmured. 

“What do you mean?”

He pushed her hand away and began to stalk across the room. The sudden shift in his demeanor scared her. 

“I lied to you, Evelyn,” he seethed, “About Kirkwall, about the Circle. I told you that I was a different man.”

“Ridiculous,” she said, “You-”

“Don’t,” he said.

“No,” Evelyn yelled, “I will not let you speak about yourself like this.”

“You should be questioning what I have done,” he yelled back, “I am not worthy to serve as your Commander. I failed you at Haven. I cannot protect you. I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry. I should be taking it! I should be-”

The sentence was cut short as Cullen threw his fist into the wall in a fury. Evelyn rushed in front of him and caught his face firmly in her hands. He was flushed with sweat, his pupils dilated, and he couldn’t keep his eyes steady on her face. Evelyn could hear Envy whispering to her, but she tore it out of her mind. 

“What was it you told me that night at Haven?” she said fiercely.

Cullen was still struggling for breath and unable to focus. 

“It was a lie,” he said, looking disgusted.

“ _What did you say, Cullen?”_

“I told you to fight,” he struggled. 

“And I am telling you now,” Evelyn pleaded, “Fight.”

Without thinking, Evelyn threw her arms around his neck and crashed her lips and body against his. Cullen caught her at her waist and pulled her so tightly against him that she gasped into his mouth. He took her bottom lip into his teeth and lifted her off the ground, her legs immediately wrapping around him, pushing her back against the wall behind her. Evelyn felt as though her mind had completely slipped out of her body as his fingers dug sharply into her thighs. He pressed her harder into the wall as one of his hands came to take purchase of her hair and pulled—her throat exposing itself as her head fell back. Immediately, he was nipping at the space above her collar bone like a starved man. A moan was forced from her mouth as her hands ached to explore him. As though he sensed it, he pivoted them quickly from the wall and her back came crashing down onto his desk. She pushed him back so that she was flush against him and began pulling up the hem of his shirt, too frantic to make contact with skin to work at his armor. Cullen started at the buttons of her tunic without taking his lips from her. Frustrated that her fingers could only grab at a small sliver of his abdomen, Evelyn slipped them into the waist of his trousers. The shudder that tore through Cullen in response further stoked that fire that was building in her core. Desperate to hear it again, she began unlacing him. With every pull, his kiss became more of a bite—wanting and wild. Once the front of his trousers slacked, her hand took the hard length of him firmly. Cullen let out a small, pained groan as his head collapsed into Evelyn’s neck. His breath hitched as she began to move her hand, agonizingly slow, and she reveled in his throbbing.

“Evelyn,” he moaned into her ear and her fingers curled tightly around him, causing a sharp breath from him.

His hand came to the inside of her thigh and began working up. Evelyn nearly came undone just from the anticipation of feeling his hand against her. Then, suddenly, he snapped his hand back and stumbled back from her.

“Wha-,” Evelyn gasped, the departure of his hand causing an ache to ripple through her.

“I want to,” he panted, “Maker, I _want_ you, but not like this.”

Quickly, he began to lace his trousers but he looked at Evelyn with dark, half-lidded eyes still consumed in his desiring for her. 

“We don’t ha-,” she began to protest but he suddenly looked angry at her.

“Was it me that first turned you away?” he asked incredulously.

“No,” she said, feeling herself nearly shrink in her guilt. The memory of the pain that she felt that night swelled up in her. 

“That,” he sighed heavily, “was not fair of me.”

Once he tied himself, he came back to Evelyn and placed his hand on her cheek. She saw his pupils dilate, still longing to finish what they had started, and the aching in her was nearly insufferable. 

“You were right,” he said, his lips so close as though he could hardly stop himself from pressing them to her again, “We can't. I cannot be what you deserve right now.”

Evelyn felt herself slipping back to Therinfal Redoubt, to the words that haunted her, and the realization that came over her stunned her for a moment: this is what the demon had meant. This is how she would lead Cullen astray. She could not distract him from himself. 

“You will keep fighting, then?” she said, buttoning her tunic and willing herself to not let any tears push forward. 

Cullen pressed his forehead against hers and the small bit of space between them was excruciating. 

“I will,” he whispered. 

She nodded against him and dared to kiss him one more time. He met her, softly this time, and his hand did not move from her face as he poured into her. She could feel how tense he was though, as he fought to hold himself back, and she pulled away quickly—not trusting herself to keep it from unraveling again. 

“Goodbye, Cullen,” she said weakly, slipping out from underneath him. 

“Goodbye, Evelyn,” he murmured back as the door closed behind her.


	14. Chapter 14

It had been weeks since Evelyn had gone to Cullen’s office. Since then, Hawke had arrived at Skyhold, and she had gone to Crestwood with her to meet her Warden contact, Alistair. She had journeyed to the Emerald Graves, the Hissing Wastes, the Exalted Plains, the Fallow Mire, and the Arbor Wilds. It was never ending, but she had anticipated it. It was exactly what she told Cassandra as they sat together at Haven after closing the Breach. There was so much to do—so much. She had only thought that all of Thedas rested on her back when she was Herald; now, as Inquisitor, it truly did. Evelyn felt as though she was being pulled in every direction by a thousand different arms; her dreams had become a constant cycle of Therinfal Redoubt, Haven falling to ruins, demons pouring from rifts, Corypheus and his archdemon, and reanimated corpses. Occasionally, she would dream of Cullen—his hands pressed into her hips, his hips flexing beneath her, his lips at her throat. Maker, how she missed him but fought against it. 

She was waiting in Josephine’s office to discuss the invitation that the Inquisition had received to attend the peace talks at the Winter Palace. When she had arrived, Evelyn was surprised that the Ambassador was not eagerly anticipating her. She had been waiting now for quite some time and began to feel a small annoyance. There were other matters that she had to get to today; she could not wait all day. She had received another letter from Hiram that sat on her desk, feeling as large as the room itself, and had planned to write to him that day. Or soon. Eventually. Right as she thought to leave, Josephine came bustling through the door.

“Oh, Inquisitor,” she huffed, her hair nearly coming apart from its usually sculpted bun, “I am so sorry to keep you waiting.”

Evelyn eyed the Ambassador suspiciously. Not only was her hair wild, but her dress was situated strangely at her shoulders and hips. Her face was glowing with a peach-toned blush. 

“Josephine,” Evelyn asked, drawing the question out, “what have you been up to?”

A telling squeak came from the mortified woman and Evelyn raised an eyebrow.

“I…” she said, trying to compose herself, but then breaking into a giddy grin, “Could we speak on the balcony?”

Evelyn, her interest now thoroughly piqued, followed Josephine out onto the terrace that overlooked the mountains that engulfed Skyhold.

Turning on her with a face lit up with delight, Josephine said, “Have you ever been in love, Inquisitor? Oh, my, I did not mean to be so forward. Pardon me. But it is a genuine question.”

“I do wish you would call me Evelyn,” Evelyn huffed, “But, no, I don’t believe that I have.”

Evelyn felt it was close enough to the truth. 

“Really?” Josephine asked incredulously, “Never?”

“You forget that I spent most of my life in the Circle,” Evelyn replied. 

“Oh,” Josephine’s face fell a bit, “Could you not…” 

Sensing the end of Josephine’s question, “No, not really. There were attempts, of course. Mostly snogging in the stacks behind the Templars’ backs, but nothing serious.”

A crimson blush colored Josephine’s cheeks, “Forgive me, Inquisitor, but have you…”

“Maker, Josephine, just ask me,” Evelyn said.

“Haveyoueverliedwithsomeone?” she asked quickly.

Evelyn couldn’t help but let a laugh spill from her as the blush moved down Josephine’s neck.

“Yes,” Evelyn said, “Why do you ask?”

“I have met someone,” Josephine nearly whispered.

“That is evident,” Evelyn said as she gave an obvious up-and-down look of the state of Josephine’s hair and clothing.

Quickly, Josephine moved to brush her hair back into place and resituate the silk of her top. 

“Right then,” Evelyn continued, “Out with it. Who is it?”

“I should not…” Josephine said coyly, a smile pulling at her lips.

Before Evelyn could protest the Ambassador’s withholding of her paramour, Josephine let it out with a nearly frenzied giggle.

“It is Ser Barris,” she gushed.

“ _Josephine_ ,” Evelyn said with a lavish as though the news was scandalous. 

“Oh, what you must think of me,” Josephine cried, covering her face in her hands, but unable to conceal the delight on her face.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am happy to see you happy,” Evelyn consoled, giving Josephine a generous and friendly squeeze at her shoulders, “But I must ask...has he not taken vows?”

The question brought on another nervous fit of giggles from Josephine.

“He has not,” she said, “But we have not yet...spent the evening together.”

“Have you ever spent the night with someone?”

“No,” Josephine whispered and looked behind them as though suspicious of someone’s approach, “That is why I asked you. I...do not know what to expect.”

“Well,” Evelyn replied, “I am afraid that I might be ill-suited to help you. I have never slept with someone of his persuasion.”

“But you said,” Josephine began, looking confused, then a look of realization crossed over her face, “Oh! I see. I should not have assumed.”

“It’s quite alright,” Evelyn laughed, her memory slipping away for a moment to her awkward and nervous romps with one of the other Circle mages, Clara, who was eventually moved to a Circle in Orlais, “I have been with men in...other ways.”

Cullen’s breath suddenly felt present at her ear—his hand wrapped into her hair and pulling. She pushed it away. 

“I see,” Josephine said as her eyes widened. 

“If you are nervous, there are some books that-” Evelyn began.

“In the library?” the Ambassador said quickly as though ready to go fetch them now.

“No,” Evelyn grinned, “I can think of a few that Varric might have in his possession.”

Josephine sputtered, “I could never ask Varric for such things.”

“I will ask for you,” Evelyn laughed.

A look of relief and gratitude flooded Josephine’s face as she took Evelyn’s elbow and brought her back into the office.

“You can leave them under my desk,” she whispered as she took a seat at it.

“Onto business, then?” Evelyn asked.

“Ah, yes, we need to discuss a few details in preparation for the Winter Palace.”

The two spent the next few hours in deep discussion of the who-to-knows, who-to-avoids, and who-to-impress that would be attending the peace talks. Josephine told Evelyn more than she ever needed to know about the secrets of Orlesian politics and the great Game— to the point that Evelyn was overwhelmed by all that Josephine began to test her on. Eventually, Josephine nearly threw up her hands at Evelyn’s lack of interest. 

“We _will_ continue this, Evelyn,” she warned.

“I do not doubt it, Ambassador,” Evelyn teased.

As Evelyn made her way towards the door, Josephine called after her.

“One last question, if I may…” she said, her voice again dropping to a whisper, and a cheeky grin grew on her face.

Evelyn tilted her head at Josephine.

“Leliana and I have been wondering: do you think our Commander has taken any vows?”

Again, Evelyn felt Cullen’s hands traveling up her thigh as his teeth bit at her neck. She felt the heat of him in her hand.

“I could not tell you,” she replied quickly, giving Josephine a tight smile.

Josephine lifted an eyebrow at her but Evelyn gave a hurried goodbye so that she would not have to guess at what the Ambassador could have possibly been thinking. 

  
  


Later, true to her word, Evelyn left her quarters to look for Varric and acquire Josephine’s readings. She found him standing and staring into one of the hearths that lined the main hall of Skyhold, looking pensive. 

“Are you alright, Varric?” Evelyn asked, noting the bunch of his eyebrows and frown.

“Me?” Varric replied as his expression immediately turned over in his usual smirk, “Doing just fine. Need something?”

“In fact, I do,” Evelyn said, “I am in need of some books. For a friend.”

“If Cassandra already wants another book, then tell her she can wait like everybody else,” he said, attempting to sound severe but smiling despite himself. 

“Not Cassandra,” Evelyn laughed.

Varric eyed her for a moment suspiciously.

“What’s this about, Blondie?” 

“I’m afraid that discretion is necessary here. All I can say is that someone is in need of an education on the machinations of romance,” Evelyn replied. 

“You and Curly finally popping that cork?” Varric ribbed. 

“ _Maker_ ,” Evelyn hissed, “To say such a thing!”

“I’m a writer, Inquisitor; I _observe_. Can’t get anything past me.”

“No, no, no,” Evelyn said hurriedly, “This is not for me.”

Varric eyed her again, almost looking disappointed. 

“Come on. I’m sure I’ve got something.”

After acquiring the books from Varric, Evelyn began to sneak back to make her delivery. Luckily, the hour had grown late and only a few still lingered about the courtyard and the main hall. Evelyn held the pile of books vicariously against her chest, to conceal the overly-erotic covers, and quietly pressed her back to the office’s door as she pushed it open behind her. As she went to turn, she collided into something—someone—and all the books went tumbling from her arms onto the ground. Diving to the ground to collect them, she looked up to see Cullen staring down at her. 

“Maker, Evelyn, what is this?” 

Evelyn looked back to the floor to see that the book that she had first collected had a particularly damning image—a woman, barely clothed in a silk chemise, prone against a wall being ravished by a faceless and incredibly muscled man. She quickly flipped it over, only to reveal a back cover that was equally as mortifying—the muscled man with his face between the woman’s scantily covered legs. 

“They’re for Josephine!” Evelyn cried. _Oh, Josephine, forgive me._

“For Josephine?” Cullen said, raising an eyebrow at her. It did not sound like a question. 

“She’s sleeping with Barris,” and Evelyn began to curse at herself internally. She was a _terrible, rotten, monster_ of a friend.

“With Barris?!” he sputtered in surprise. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here! I was just supposed to leave them under her desk!”

“I had to leave some reports,” he said defensively. 

Evelyn frantically picked up the books, pushed past Cullen, and waddled over to Josephine’s desk with them. Haphazardly, she tossed them under and turned on him.

“You cannot breathe a word to her about this,” she said sharply, trying to sound threatening, “She would be mortified.”

“I can assure you that I won’t,” he said following after her, holding one of the books in his hand out to her, and looking very pointedly away from it. 

Evelyn snatched it from him and briefly glanced at its cover. Her face blushed horribly at the sight of a man wearing only his smalls being straddled by a woman with a mage’s cloak on. The book thudded against the back of the table as she threw it violently under with the rest of them. Cullen was still looking away from her, seemingly distracted by the fire in the hearth, and Evelyn became all too aware that the room was dimly lit by the fire alone—incredibly intimate, much too intimate. Without a goodbye, she began to make for the door. 

“Evelyn, a moment,” he called after her and she stopped exactly where her foot was falling next. 

Slowly, she turned back to him and approached hesitantly to where he stood at the fire. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye but turned his attention back to the fireplace. 

“How have you been doing?” he asked quietly. 

“Holding up, I think,” Evelyn admitted though she desperately wished this conversation was not taking place in such a warm room, with so many cushioned chairs and settees, and the majestic light of the stars visible from the great windows that lined the wall of the room. She dared to look at him and noticed that he looked much less haggard than he did weeks ago. Since that night, they had met in the war room a few times and Evelyn always took close inventory of his face— standing much closer to him than she had in the past in order to get a decent look. Thinking about how pained he had been that night, how he had come apart before her, made her heart ache at the sight of him before her now. Unable to stop herself, she slipped her hand underneath his arm.

“How are you?” she whispered, unable to coax her voice fully out of her throat. 

To her surprise (and nearly distress), Cullen pulled her gently in front of him. His hands followed along the slope of her shoulders then moved her hair away from her neck and brought it around to her chest, exposing her nape to him. A chill ran up her body. His arms settled themselves lightly around her waist and despite herself, she rested her hands on his and leaned back into him. 

“It is still hard,” he murmured into the crook of her neck and Evelyn felt her knees weaken from the feeling of his lips speaking against the soft of her skin, “but not like it was.”

“Good,” Evelyn managed to say as she melted into him. 

“I have been unable to stop thinking about you, Evelyn,” he crooned again as his nose moved up her neck to the back of her ear. 

“Cullen,” she warned.

“I know,” he said though still not drawing away from her, “Just a moment longer?”

Evelyn, defenseless, could only nod her head. 

“You’ve been training with Blackwall?” he asked and the question surprised her. 

“Yes,” she said, feeling a small guilt stir in her but confused by his question. 

“Hm,” Cullen breathed against her neck.

“Why do you ask?” she said.

“No reason,” he said rather quickly.

Evelyn gave a small laugh and gave him a slight rib with her elbow, “Jealous?”

“Yes,” he growled, his arms tightening around her for a moment, and she nearly came undone. 

Evelyn spun around in his arms, her hands coming to rest on his breastplate, and his hands held her firmly at the small of her back. Slowly, hesitantly, she rose up to kiss him and he caught it in earnest. With every bit of willpower she could muster, Evelyn tried to keep the kiss contained; she sensed the same from Cullen as his hands flexed against the small of her back—desperately wanting to explore the flare of her hips. It was totally unlike the night at Haven or the night in his office, she thought, how tender his lips moved against hers as if it were their first kiss—sweet, eager, and curious. Eventually, he pulled away and pressed his forehead against hers. 

“Josephine will be back,” he said.

Evelyn tried to push down the flare of the thrill that began knotting her core as her breath hitched. As if having the same thought, Cullen’s hands came to her hips and squeezed as though he was trying to hold her down to the floor. They both struggled to calm their breathing. 

“I should go,” she whispered and he nodded against her.

Neither of them moved. Cullen’s hand came to her neck and held her for a moment, the wide expanse of his gloved hand engulfing the side of her face, then kissed her one more time— deeply. She sighed into the kiss and her hands moved into his hair. Regretfully, they both pulled away and she slowly unwound herself from him. 

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

“Goodnight,” she replied as she slipped out the door. 

When Evelyn returned to her room, her heart felt nearly about to burst. How easily she could have had Cullen follow her out, then up the stairs to her quarters, then into her bed. How badly she wanted to be held by him again. How badly she wanted to have him in her own arms. She paced for a moment, at first in her room, but then grew too hot. She took to the balcony and relished the feeling of the frigid air on her skin; she placed her hands to her face to cool the heat in her cheeks. She could smell him all over her—the familiar pine and smoke of his cloak. Coming back into her room, Evelyn very nearly decided to go find him in his quarters but shook the thought desperately out of her mind. Then, she remembered: the letter. That would be an excellent distraction, she thought. Hurriedly, she cut the letter open and was surprised to see only a few lines.

_Dearest sister,_

_It appears that we will soon be having that Antivan vintage together. I am en route to Skyhold; William is accompanying me. We should arrive within the week._

_I know that I should have waited for word from you. I hope that you will forgive me._

_Your brother,_

_Hiram_


	15. Chapter 15

Evelyn was unable to sleep after the letter. She sat beside her fire until the familiar blue dawn light of the Frostbacks began to rise over the mountains as she held the inconspicuous piece of parchment in her hand. It had become slightly worn where her thumb had anxiously rubbed back and forth as the words swam in her head. With the coming light, she dressed quickly. So many preparations would need to be made ahead of her brother’s arrival and she needed to see to them immediately. Where would Hiram sleep? How long was he staying? What kind of accommodations would he need? And William? Evelyn thought to go wake Josephine but it could hardly be a few hours past midnight and who knows where or with whom Josephine had been the night before. Rather than turning right to enter the Ambassador’s office, she went down to Skyhold’s gardens. Around the gardens, there were some vacant rooms that had been the topic of some discussion for preparing in the event of Inquisition guests; one of them would have to do. 

As Evelyn came into the garden, it gave her pause. Mother Giselle had managed to do some incredible work with the long-neglected soil and heaps of weeds and vines that had accumulated in the garden through its decades of vacancy. Now, all sorts of herbs grew in abundance, and birds of all feathers darted around in the greens holding leaves, flowers, and twigs to build their tiny homes in the height of the garden’s trees. It truly was beautiful. Evelyn reminded herself to thank Mother Giselle soon. 

Evelyn began to make hurried work of assessing the rooms that lined the garden to see which seemed to be in the best condition. Most had holes in the ceilings, hearths left in abysmal condition, and all sorts of debris that only nobles could leave—paintings, pottery, instruments whose strings had gone to rust. A frustration began to mount at the prospect that there would not be a room that could sufficiently board Hiram. Evelyn threw open the next door with some irritation and then nearly collapsed into the doorframe at the sight before her. At the end of the room stood a great statue of Andraste encircled by gently flickering candles and the room smelled thickly of incense. As if dreaming, she thought herself back in the Circle for her morning prayer. The light was pouring in through the thickly paned windows, catching the dust in the air and illuminating it a brilliant gold, and the very walls of the room seemed steeped with a holiness. Whether from wanting or some small bit of shame, Evelyn quickly approached the altar to the statue and kneeled to give quick prayer. The words came to her without any struggle. Once she had finished, she brushed away a single pin drop of a tear from her eye and softly shut the door to the room behind her. 

The next and final room of the garden wing, by either luck or reward, was nearly decent enough to house guests. There were no holes in the wall or ceiling, the hearth needed only a good sweeping, and its windows contained no cracks. The morning had turned fully over now and Evelyn thought now would be a more appropriate time to speak with the Ambassador. 

When Evelyn entered the office, she was surprised to find Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine in quiet conversation over some documents on the Ambassador’s desk. Leliana noticed Evelyn first.

“Inquisitor,” she greeted with a small smile and nod. 

“My brother is on his way to Skyhold,” Evelyn rushed. Maker, why did she have to sound so anxious?

“What?” Josephine asked, looking up at Evelyn in surprise, “Your brother? I received no word of guests arriving.”

Cullen turned to look at her and his eyes poured over her face.

“He wrote to me several days ago. I had only just opened it last night,” Evelyn replied with some guilt. 

“We will ready housing for him at once, Inquisitor,” Josephine said as she quickly picked up her board to begin her work.

“There is a room down in the gardens, at the very end. It needs a new bed and the hearth cleaned, but it will do,” Evelyn noted. 

“I will make it a priority,” Josephine said, “Is your brother traveling alone?”

The question hung in the air awkwardly. 

“No,” Evelyn answered, “He is accompanied by one of the Trevelyan’s stable hands.”

Josephine gave a curt nod and began furiously scribbling. 

“Is there any other business that we have?” Josephine asked Leliana and Cullen without looking up from her parchment. 

“Yes,” Leliana said, “It will be brief, though. Inquisitor, I will see to it that some of my scouts meet your brother on the road to ensure a safe journey.”

Evelyn nodded at her gratefully. 

“I have no other news,” Cullen said, “Would you like me to send any soldiers with the scouts, Inquisitor?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Evelyn replied though part of her wanted to send the entire Inquisition army.

“Anything else, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked.

“No, that is all. Thank you, Josephine,” Evelyn said.

“Inquisitor, would you walk with me to my office? There are some reports that I would like to go over with you,” Cullen said. 

Evelyn nodded her head and caught a brief look exchanged between Josephine and Leliana.  _ That  _ could be nothing good, Evelyn cursed. Together, Cullen and Evelyn took leave of the Ambassador’s office. 

Without speaking, they crossed through the main hall and battlements and entered Cullen’s office. The moment they entered, the desk loomed like a giant before her and her ears grew hot. She found it impossible to look at and instead looked to the wall. The wall that Cullen had pressed her up against only weeks ago. Her ears burned hotter. Evelyn looked to her hands. 

“Erm,” Cullen stammered, his hand rising to the back of his neck as it grew red.

“Reports?” Evelyn managed. 

“No,” he replied, also having difficulty finding a place to rest his eyes, “I wanted to speak to you in private.”

Evelyn settled her gaze on Cullen who was looking at her with soft eyes.

“Your brother?” he asked. 

“He had wanted to come to Haven,” Evelyn said, “He had sent me a letter while we were there but I never replied.”

“Thank the Maker he didn’t,” Cullen murmured.

The idea of Hiram being caught in the destruction of Haven unsettled her stomach completely and she winced. 

“Yes,” Evelyn said, measuring her breath, “I...It’s only that…”

The sentence could not take form as Evelyn felt her palms begin to sweat. 

“You’re nervous?” Cullen asked, coming around his desk and resting his hands on Evelyn’s arms.

“Horribly,” Evelyn admitted. 

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“Fifteen years. I was ten. Hiram was eight.”

Cullen nodded.

“Do you have siblings, Cullen?” Evelyn asked, her fingers coming to investigate the feathers at his shoulders.

“I do. Two sisters and a brother.”

“Really?” Evelyn looked up in surprise.

“Yes,” Cullen said and Evelyn noticed the look of guilt that wrinkled his forehead, “I have not seen them in quite some time.”

Evelyn nodded and decided not to push it further. Cullen’s hand rested itself against her cheek and her fingers laced through the feathers fully. 

“Evelyn, perhaps we-,” Cullen began but the door began to open behind them. They jumped apart instinctively. 

“Cullen, so the Maker help me, but if you send your breakfast away  _ one more time _ ,” shouted Hattie as she pushed the door open with her back, a tray of food in her hands. As she turned, Evelyn felt herself nearly crumple to the floor in child-like guilt as Hattie’s eyes darted between the Commander and Evelyn who stood a suspicious distance apart. 

“And  _ you! _ ” she said, placing the tray down on Cullen’s desk and turning on Evelyn, “What’s this that I’ve been hearing about giants and dragons and darkspawn?!”

“I-,” Evelyn began.

“I could just box you both soundly ‘round the ears, I could!” Hattie continued, “ _ You, _ ” she said pointing at Evelyn, “for worrying me half to death! And  _ you, _ ” she said, turning her finger on Cullen, “for letting our girl just throw herself in front of every blighted monster of Thedas!”

A pained look crossed Cullen’s face.

“Hattie, we’ve talked about this,” he protested but the sentence ended abruptly. His hand came to his neck nervously. 

Evelyn looked to Cullen in surprise then Hattie. Hattie’s hands had settled firmly on her hips and she eyed Cullen up-and-down. Her expression softened and she shuffled over to give Cullen an affectionate pat on his cheek. 

“Eat your breakfast,” she said with great authority then turned on Hattie, “And you come see me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Evelyn and Cullen replied quietly as Hattie gave them one more good-hearted glare then left the room. 

“Cullen?” Evelyn said, turning to Cullen with a raised eyebrow.

A blush began to creep up Cullen’s neck again as he came around to the tray of food and picked up a small wheat roll. 

“Hattie has hardly left me alone since Haven,” he said. 

Evelyn’s eyebrow rose higher. 

“I enjoy her company,” he finally admitted, tearing apart the roll in his hands and without looking up from it, “She....reminds me of home.”

A nearly overwhelming feeling of adoration swept over Evelyn as she watched Cullen, the great Commander of the Inquisition, looking sheepishly down at his piece of bread. 

“You two talk about me?” Evelyn dared to tease. 

Although his blush turned nearly the color of fire itself, Cullen laughed and looked at Evelyn. His eyes were shining with such an affection that Evelyn found herself unable to control her grin. 

“Perhaps,” he smirked, taking a bite out of his roll. 

“Interesting,” Evelyn said simply. 

Then, without hesitation, she closed the distance between them and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. Cullen caught her by her waist firmly before she could pull away.

“Eat your breakfast, Commander,” she whispered against his ear and his grip tightened. Evelyn slipped her hand into his and pried it away. With one more cheeky smirk back at the Commander, who still blushed furiously, she slipped out the door. 

  
  


Evelyn, seeking more relief from the mounting anxiety of Hiram’s visit, made off to visit Hattie although she braced herself for more of the woman’s scolding. As soon as she entered the kitchen, Hattie was upon her. 

“Your brother is coming?!” Hattie asked and she seemed nearly frenzied by the news.

“Within the week,” Evelyn replied hesitantly as Hattie clattered around the room taking inventory of their food stock. On the table, Evelyn saw Josephine’s familiar cursive and stationary.  _ Feast  _ was the first word to catch her eye.

“Maker, a week! A week!” Hattie cried.

“Hattie,” Evelyn began to laugh, “It’s alright. There’s no need to work up your nerves. Whatever you make will be wonderful, I’m sure.”

“What kind of food does he like? Pork? Quail? Or something exotic, hm? Druffalo!” Hattie continued as she worked around the kitchen.

“Hiram was always simple. A roasted chicken and potatoes would be lovely,” Evelyn said but suddenly felt unsure. Eight-year-old Hiram loved their cook’s roasted chicken; twenty-three-year-old Hiram, though, did he?

“The Inquisition serving a sad little roasted chicken to the Inquisitor’s brother!” Hattie scoffed, looking offended, but then looked contemplative, “Those Orlesian chickens sure are impressive. Look like turkeys, they do. I’ll have Josephine get her hands on some.”

Evelyn settled at the table and watched Hattie fuss over her ingredients. Taking a deep breath, she nearly wanted to weep at the familiar smell of spices and burned animal fat. Truthfully, Evelyn had avoided coming to Skyhold’s kitchen because the smell immediately brought her back to Haven. The memory still wounded her but Evelyn let herself slip away for a moment. Eventually, Hattie plopped herself into a chair with a great huff, threw up her heels onto a small stool, and wiped her forehead with a rag. 

“Did Cullen eat?” she asked.

“He was making an attempt when I left,” Evelyn replied.

Hattie nodded her head then frowned at Evelyn.

“What?” Evelyn asked, mirroring the woman’s frown.

“Have I ever told you about my son?” Hattie said, wringing the rag between her hands. 

“You have a son?” Evelyn asked, surprised by the news. Hattie had only spoken of a late husband to Evelyn—never a son. 

“Francis,” Hattie smiled but it dissipated quickly on her face, “Lost him in the Blight.”

“Oh, Hattie,” Evelyn murmured, leaning across the table, “I’m so sorry.”

Hattie sniffed loudly and looked up at Evelyn with a weak smile.

“Ah,” she said, waving her hand, “May his memory be a blessing.”

Evelyn nodded. Hattie looked away from her and into the fire where a pot bubbled cheerfully.

“Will you tell me about him?” Evelyn asked gently.

“He was a beautiful boy,” Hattie said and she smiled wistfully, “A horribly curious child and so serious about everything.” A laugh rose up in Hattie, “Once, he hit a bird’s nest with his sling and tried to make a new one for it. Took him days. But that was my Francis— always wanting to help. Thought he would join the Fereldan army someday.”

Another sniffle racked Hattie. 

“When the darkspawn came, he stayed to fight. There was no convincing him otherwise. He wanted to protect those who couldn’t make it out with the rest of us.”

Before Evelyn could reply, Hattie laughed.

“Look at me,” she said, wiping at her eyes, “Old Hattie just blubbering away. You do me a kindness, Evelyn, listening to me talk about my Francis.”

“You can tell me more if you like,” Evelyn encouraged.

“That’s alright, sweet girl,” Hattie replied, “There’s only so much talking you can do about it anyway, you know. Besides, I want to know how you’ve been. Tell me the truth, but no talk of demons; Sera takes great delight in deviling me with those stories.”

Evelyn laughed, “I promise that I’m alright and Sera surely stretches the truth a bit.” Then, Evelyn’s face fell a bit and Hattie looked at her with concern, “It still hurts to think of Haven, but I’m settling here, I think.”

“The Maker has given you a great duty,” Hattie said, measuring Evelyn with her eyes, “You carry it well.”

“Do I?” Evelyn whispered, occupying herself with a groove in the table’s wood. 

“Of course you do,” Hattie said, sounding incredulous, “I’m not the only one who has seen the change in you. How much more assured you have become.”

“Cullen?” Evelyn asked.

“Perhaps, maybe, I don’t know. Many come through my kitchen,” Hattie teased as Evelyn rolled her eyes but smiled back at Hattie, “Though I suppose that he and I have had a few talks about you, yes.”

“Thank you for looking after him, Hattie,” Evelyn said, suddenly serious, “It’s...complicated, my relationship with him. I can’t…”

“I know it, dear,” Hattie said gently as Evelyn stopped short and bit into her lip, “But don’t build walls where there aren’t any.”

Evelyn could only nod her head. 

“Now, be a dear and go tell Josephine to order my chickens,” Hattie said, standing up from the table and giving Evelyn an affection smile. 


	16. Chapter 16

Evelyn stood at the gates of Skyhold hardly able to contain herself. At first, she paced back and forth until she began to feel dizzy. Then, she stood wringing her hands and occasionally standing up onto her toes as if it would give her a better look of the path down below. Leliana’s scouts had arrived that morning to notify the Inquisition that Hiram would be arriving by midday. Since then, Evelyn had felt nearly ready to come out of her skin with nerves. The sun had moved into the center of the sky and he would be arriving at any moment. 

“Soon, Inquisitor,” came the soft voice of Leliana as she took a place beside the fidgeting woman. 

Evelyn nodded. She felt a little grateful for Leliana’s presence—always calm and quiet—and felt her nerves trying to settle. Soon, Cassandra, Josephine, and Cullen came down from their respective workspaces to join the wait. It seemed as though Josephine fielded a hundred messages as they waited at the gates.

“The drapes have been properly hung? The washbasin has been placed? The floor has been swept? The floor has been swept again?” she asked and each messenger would take off to ensure that the tasks had been done. 

Evelyn wrapped her arms around herself. Right at the furthest point of her vision, she saw her brother’s carriage approaching. A breath caught in her throat. Softly, almost imperceptible, Cullen’s hand came to her back. The moment that her eyes looked to him, his hand parted from her as he crossed his arms on his chest. He nodded at her and his eyes were impossibly warm—the color of good honey. She managed a shaky smile. 

After a torturous amount of time, the carriage bumped off the dirt path and onto the grass underneath’s Skyhold’s gate. The carriage was led by an impeccably cared for Free March ranger and its reins were held by a lanky young man with red curls pulled back with a string. He smiled widely at Evelyn as if she were an old friend. Master Dennet approached from the stables, preparing to unhitch the horse to stall it, when he suddenly called out—startling the waiting party. 

“Is that you, William?” he cried.

“Dennet, you old man,” William replied with a great laugh as he jumped down from the carriage. The two men met halfway with a hearty hug and Dennet clapped his hand down on the young man’s shoulder. Josephine gave a rather pointed cough and William looked over to them.

“Oh, Maker, my manners,” William said, his smile still taking up the majority of his face, and his eyes falling on Evelyn, “Finally!”

In a moment, Evelyn was pulled into a sternum-crushing embrace as William lifted her off the ground and spun her around. 

“William!” came a voice from the carriage as the man set Evelyn back onto the ground and beamed at her. His eyes widened at the voice and he raced over the carriage doors, “Oh, shite! Hold on, Hiram! Sorry!”

Evelyn was reeling and felt herself nearly stumbling after him to greet her brother. William opened the door and braced one foot onto the carriage step as he reached in. Evelyn saw Hiram lean forward and take William’s arms in his hand as he began to hoist himself up. William, with incredible care, gently guided Hiram to the step. 

“Watch it there,” William said softly as Hiram’s leg, set in a metal casing, came down on the step stiffly. But Hiram was not looking at the step, or at William, or at anything other than Evelyn. Evelyn could only marvel back at him. In fifteen years, his hair had grown thick with black curls like their father’s though his eyes were fox-like and moss-green—like their mother’s, like her’s. He was ridiculously tall and his skin was as gold as goldenrod itself. A cry shuddered up out of Evelyn’s chest and her hand flew to her mouth to cover it, but it was useless. Suddenly, she was crying,but inexplicably, rips of laughter came in between the sobs until she could hardly distinguish the two. As though unable to move, Hiram stood on the step of the carriage and cried-laughed with her. William, in a quick movement, swept Hiram from the step onto the ground and wiped away tears from his own eyes. Hiram walked towards her slowly and Evenlyn met him halfway but they could only continue to stare at one another as they grinned wildly. Then, Hiram crushed her into a hug. 

“I hope you aren’t terribly cross with me,” he said.

“Of course I’m not,” she laughed through another round of sobs lifting her chest. 

After a moment, the two separated and Evelyn could hardly take inventory of his face—so overwhelmed by its familiarity and foreignness. 

“Not children anymore, eh?” he smiled, his face wet with tears. 

“No,” Evelyn whispered.

Hiram took a step back, catching himself on his metaled leg, and turned to William with a wave of his hand. 

“This is William,” he said and Evelyn noticed the warm look that lit up Hiram’s face as William approached. 

“Suppose I should have greeted you a bit more formally before,” he replied sheepishly, his own eyes still glimmering with tears, but grinning at her, “I’ve been so excited to meet you.”

“It’s perfectly alright, William,” she said as she gave his arm a squeeze, already completely endeared by him. 

“You must be tired,” Evelyn sniffed, rubbing away her clouded vision, “Please, let me show you to your quarters.”

As Evelyn went to turn, she realized that she had completely forgotten about her advisors.

“Oh,” she said, rather embarrassed, “Let me first introduce you. These are my advisors: Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra, and Cullen.”

As if a spell of division had been broken over them, the two parties merged together for a moment to greet one another. Evelyn could only watch as her two worlds joined together on the soft green lawn of Skyhold, beneath the brilliant sun of the Frostbacks, as the air was sweet with pine. Cullen was the first to approach Hiram, extending his hand out to her brother.

“How pleased I am to meet you, Hiram,” Cullen said kindly.

“And you,” Hiram replied, shaking Cullen’s hand, then turning to the group, “And which of you is the lovely Ambassador?”

“That would be me, Lord Trevelyan” Josephine said with a modest but pleased smile.

Hiram met her with a hug and Evelyn tried to not stare at the sun glinting off the metal of his leg casing as he walked towards Josephine. 

“Thank you,” Hiram said softly to her, “If you had not written to me at Haven, I do not know if I would be here with you all today.”

Evelyn’s hand came to clutch at her chest at his words. 

“Evelyn?” Hiram asked, now turning to her, “Would you show us to our quarters now?”

Evelyn nodded quickly. William turned back to the carriage but Josephine clucked at him.

“I will have your luggage taken care of,” she said as she corralled him away. 

Hiram wrapped his arm into Evelyn’s at the elbow and beamed at her as she began to walk them towards the gardens. A worry quickly rose up in here that she was walking too fast, but Hiram seemed unbothered by the pace. William walked beside them and seemed enthralled by the sight of Skyhold.

“What a place this is!” he exclaimed and both Hiram and Evelyn laughed. 

A pride welled in Evelyn’s chest. As they walked through the garden, Hiram could hardly contain his excitement at the sight of the birds and flowers so they stopped for a moment to observe a robin nesting itself into a pot of elfroot. 

“Could I possibly help with any of the gardening?” he asked, awestruck as he softly brushed the petals of some crystal grace. 

“Of course you can,” Evelyn said, “Mother Giselle would be happy for the help.”

Pleased, Hiram offered his arm back to Evelyn and they proceeded to his room. As they entered, Evelyn could have kissed Josephine for the care that she put into preparing it. It was absolutely lovely. The drapes were a soft red velvet, some beautiful pastorals had been hung, two plush chairs sat beside the hearth, and a bottle of an Antivan red sat waiting on the table beside them—as Evelyn had requested. Suddenly, though, Evelyn realized that only one bed was present. 

“Oh,” she said, “I’ve only realized, there’s one bed. I will have another brought immediately.”

Hiram had already dropped onto the generously sized bed as he unlatched himself from his leg casing. 

“It won’t be necessary, sister,” he said but his eyes did not look up from his work.

Evelyn looked to William who gave her a soft smile but lines creased around his eyes tightly and then looked to Hiram who now looked at her with hesitation. 

“Maker, I must be daft,” she exclaimed and Hiram let out a laugh that sounded full of relief. 

“It won’t be a problem?” William asked as he came to his knee beside Hiram’s leg, working at the last latch at Hiram’s ankle.

“Certainly not,” Evelyn said and William looked over his shoulder at her with a grin, “I will leave you two to settle in. Josephine insisted on a formal dinner so somebody will be by later to summon you.”

William set the casing gently against the wall and began to straighten out Hiram’s leg to stretch it. Hiram grimaced and Evelyn felt her chest tighten. Noticing her look, Hiram looked at her softly.

“It’s not so bad,” he said, “Really. Travel just jostles it around a bit.”

Evelyn nodded but his words did nothing to loosen the pit of snakes in her stomach.

“Could we have dinner in the garden, Evelyn?” he asked and his voice sounded like it did as a child—kind, hopeful, eager. 

“Of course, Hiram,” she nearly whispered, “That sounds wonderful.”

Though there had been some fuss over the relocation of dinner, once the tables and linens and plates had all been moved to the garden even Josephine was nearly beside herself with the beauty of the set-up. Evelyn, unable to continue to sit in her quarters until summoned, found herself in Hattie’s kitchen to help bring down the food. With a full tray and a carafe of wine balanced in her hands, Evelyn began a treacherous descent down the battlements to the garden. 

“Evelyn?” Cullen called, coming out of his quarters.

He was out of his armor and Evelyn could have swooned at the sight of him had it not been for the monstrous roasted chicken that she held. He wore his usual cotton tunic, but it was paired with a dashing red quilted coat with gold stitching. Evelyn realized she must have been ogling because a blush crept up Cullen’s neck to his smirk as he met her to take the platter out of her hands. 

“How are you doing?” he asked as they proceeded down the steps to the lawn. 

“Overwhelmed,” she managed, still distracted by his coat. “I’m glad you’re here.”

It felt like a confession, the way the sentence came out of her mouth.

“Always,” he replied and if Cullen had not been now holding the entirely-too-big roasted chicken she might have kissed him. 

As they entered the garden and set down their respective dishes, Evelyn turned to take in the garden. Truly, it was a sight. The long tables had been draped in white embossed cloths and on them were all kinds of gilded bowls and plates containing more food than Evelyn could have ever imagined necessary. Torches had been lit and glowed orange against the fading dusk; a few fireflies thought to supply their own blinking lights as they danced around the garden. Occasionally, the robin in the elfroot let out a little song. 

“Will you sit beside me?” Evelyn asked Cullen quietly, as though she would disturb some sort of glamour over the garden if she spoke too loudly. 

“Of course,” he said, coming up beside her and slipping his hand into hers to give it a gentle squeeze. 

Their private moment in the garden was quickly disturbed by a march of plates, led by Hattie who looked as formidable as the Commander himself, and a sudden rush of bodies as the tables were finished. 

“What do you think, dear?” Hattie asked as she took in her own work upon the tables. 

“It’s perfect, Hattie,” Evelyn replied gratefully, “Thank you.”

Satisfied, Hattie gave a nod and began to turn back.

“Wait!” Evelyn called after her, “Aren’t you dining with us?”

“What?” Hattie asked incredulously, “Of course not. I’m needed in the kitchen.”

“Hattie,” Evelyn laughed, “Let the Sisters take care of it. Please. Join us.”

Hattie’s mouth opened, then closed, then she gave a fierce nod.

Soon enough, the rest of the party was summoned, and everybody began to take a place at the table. Josephine had insisted that Evelyn sit at the head, though she protested, and now Cullen sat to her right and Hiram to her left. As she had anticipated, Hiram seemed positively enchanted by the scene. The dinner commenced and the party fell upon the bounty with a fervor.

“Excellent decision to have dinner in the garden, Lord Trevelyan,” Josephine congratulated a few seats down the table, sitting beside Ser Barris, and Hiram looked pleased. 

“I find it is always good to dine in open air when one can,” he smiled. 

Evelyn noticed William’s hand come to rest over Hiram’s upon the table and a happiness swelled in her so heavy that she thought she might burst. It was not only seeing her brother so loved, but looking down the length of the table to see the revelry of the party before her. Cassandra and Varric had elected to sit next to one another though they were rather loudly quarreling. Solas seemed to be taking great delight in the cucumber soup. The Bull and Dorian were in a rather heated exchange though they were both smirking wildly at each other. Hattie was heaping a ridiculous amount of cranberry sauce onto Sera’s plate though Sera looked ready to slip underneath the table to nap off the bulge of her stomach. Vivienne seemed to be scolding Blackwall’s holding of a knife but they were both laughing good-heartedly. Leliana had leaned back in her seat with a small smile on her face as she also observed the others. Maryden plucked gracefully at her lute and sang a song about coming out of the woods and into light, about the sky opening up to rain dreams. For a moment, she closed her eyes—just wanting to drink the sound of it all. She felt a hand brush her knee beneath the table and slowly she moved hers down to meet it. Opening her eyes, she looked to Cullen who regarded her tenderly as he closed his fingers around hers. They smiled. 

“How do you like the chicken, Hiram?” Hattie called from down the table. Cullen began to pull away but Evelyn held onto him. His eyes seemed to light up brighter than the torches. 

“Is it you that I have to thank for this meal?” Hiram replied, “I will sing praises of your chicken from the Frostbacks for all of Thedas to hear!”

Hattie let out a barking laugh and blushed furiously. Evelyn turned to Hiram, still holding Cullen’s hand beneath the table, and their eyes met with a look of knowing that threatened to finally bring her happiness to spilling. 

“I am so glad you are here, Hiram,” she said, and with each word, she felt tears push up. 

“As am I, sister,” he replied with a smile that nearly broke her heart. 

“Don’t forget we have the Antivan waiting for us,” Evelyn whispered as though it were a secret, and Hiram winked. 

Dinner continued well into the night until the torches began to dim. Incredibly, the party had managed to clear off the table and the Sisters began to collect the empty plates up. Slowly, people began to say their goodbyes and make off to their quarters or the tavern until only Hiram, William, Evelyn, and Cullen remained. They had found themself deep in conversation about Fereledan history—or at least William and Cullen had. Hiram and Evelyn looked at each other in amusement as the two men exchanged impassioned speeches about the Exalted Age. 

“Forgive me,” Cullen eventually said, grinning as he leaned back into his chair, “This conversation could last until dawn if you do not stop me.”

“It seems you have met your match, William,” Hiram teased as he looked at the red-headed man beside him who seemed nearly drunk on his own excitement about the conversation. Or perhaps it had been the many generous glasses of ale that he had consumed, “Come. To bed with you.”

With that, they all moved from their chairs. Hiram roped his arm around William’s waist and William’s head rested on top of Hiram’s shoulder as he looked at Cullen and Evelyn. 

“Lovely couple, you two,” he said, a small hiccup giving him pause, “Really. Just beautiful. You’ll make us glorious nieces and nephews.”

“William!” Hiram cried in mortification as both Cullen and Evelyn nearly sputtered with embarrassment. 

William’s eyes looked up at Hiram and he frowned, looking quite like a fish. 

“What? Look at them-” he continued but Hiram began to drag him away.

“Come join me in a moment, Evelyn,” Hiram called over his shoulder as he and William swayed their way back to their quarters, “Once this one is settled.”

Cullen and Evelyn stood deadly still as the couple retreated, William loudly and excitedly discussing unclehood with Hiram.

“Well,” Cullen croaked and the sound of sheer discomfort in his voice caused a most peculiar reaction in Evelyn. Suddenly, she was laughing. She could hardly contain it as her hand came to her mouth to cover it but then Cullen was laughing too and both of them had to take a moment to settle themselves. The awkwardness managed to mostly dissipate and Evelyn sought Cullen’s hand as she turned fully to him. 

“Are you retiring for the evening?” she asked.

He looked regretful as he nodded his head.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked. 

“Of course. I suppose that it might be a moment before William is down,” she laughed and Cullen smirked.

Together, they began to walk through the garden to the door that led back into the castle. Evelyn thought for a moment to drop his hand, but didn’t. Even as they entered the main hall, where a few people still milled about the fires, she found herself only holding on more tightly. They walked quietly through Solas’ study, where his murals had grown larger than life in the last few weeks, and came out onto the battlements. It was totally deserted and the only sound came from the soft sighs of the horses in the stable and the sound of merry-making from the tavern. Cullen pulled back for a moment and they stopped for a moment to appreciate the solitude. Evelyn came to rest her arms upon the stone and looked out over Skyhold as Cullen took a place beside her, his arm settling across the small of her back with his hand at her hip. She leaned into the quilted down of his coat. 

“Tonight was perfect,” she murmured.

“It was,” Cullen replied softly. 

Most unwelcomed, a feeling of unrest began to grow with a quickness in Evelyn’s chest though she begged it to go away. 

“Evelyn?” Cullen asked as he felt her body become tense beneath his hand.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, “It’s just that...I know it can’t stay like this. I know that it won’t.”

She turned underneath Cullen’s hand to face him and his face looked so heavy with worry.

“It won’t,” he said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “But it doesn’t mean that we can’t take happiness when it comes to us—however fleeting.”

Evelyn felt the impulse to argue, to be rational, to not ignore the reality that they faced but she thought of Hattie. _Don’t build walls where there aren’t any_. So she sank into Cullen’s arms, her own coming around his waist tightly, and he pulled her close against him.

“What does this mean for us, Cullen?” she asked against his chest and she felt a sigh move up from him.

“I have been wondering that myself,” he admitted. 

“It’s impossible to convince myself that we shouldn’t,” she said. 

Cullen did not reply but one of his hands came to move through her hair gently. Evelyn slipped one of her hands underneath his tunic and he let out another sigh as she traced circles against his skin.

“The moment that you fell that demon before me at the Temple,” he whispered, “I knew that I would gladly walk into the Fade itself for you.”

The confession startled Evelyn and she pulled back from Cullen’s embrace.

“That long?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said, his voice so very quiet, trying to make sense of Evelyn’s reaction. 

Evelyn turned away from Cullen and her chest was rising and falling like an ocean turning in a storm. More than anything, she was incredibly angry with herself for being so taken aback by Cullen’s words. Her heart had soared at them but her stomach had dropped; she did not know what to make of it. As her blood seared through her, her mind suddenly flooded with images and she was unable to stop them. The Temple, Haven, Therinfal Redoubt, Corypheus—all of it. Then new images began to conjure intrusively from her mind: an army of Red Templars bearing down on Skyhold, her companions fallen dead on the lawn, Hiram and William ripped to shreds by the archdemon, Cullen bleeding in her arms. She couldn’t find her breath and it felt like clumps of dirt in her chest. Turning back to Cullen, clutching at her chest, she tried to gasp for air to fill her lungs. Cullen went to put her hands to her shoulders but she pushed them away, overwhelmed by his presence. He did not move away from her. 

“Focus on your breath, Evelyn. It will pass,” he said firmly and his voice sounded as if it were coming through water as Evelyn tried to inhale. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Evelyn fell against the battlements and slid down to the ground, her breath still escaping her. Cullen crouched beside her, at a distance, and steadied himself against the stone. 

“It will pass. You’re safe here,” Cullen repeated and Evelyn felt the grip on her chest loosen a bit, enough for the air to shake into her chest a bit more deeply. 

“What’s happening?” she sputtered as her eyes flew to Cullen’s in a frenzy. 

“It happens to me, too. Keep concentrating on your breath,” he said and she reached for his hand. Without hesitating, he caught her hand and she squeezed so tightly that she thought that it must be painful. Evelyn closed her eyes and leaned her head back into the stone as she willed her chest to release. After another moment, she could manage a full breath. 

“How is it now?” Cullen asked.

“Better,” she managed to say. They stayed there for a moment longer as Evelyn panted. 

Eventually, she tried to rise and Cullen helped her to her feet. Still shaking, she collapsed back into Cullen and he hesitated for a moment before he engulfed her entirely with his arms. 

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Once she felt better collected, she gently pulled away enough to look at him.

“That happens to you?” she asked and he looked at her sadly.

“Sometimes,” he replied, “At night.”

Evelyn felt her heart ache at the idea of Cullen waking up in the night, desperate for breath, alone in the dark of his quarters. She cupped his face in her hand and his eyes closed beneath her touch. Lightly, she reached up and kissed him—feather-light—on his lips. Then, more steadily. Then, greedily until they were both fully entangled with one another in their embrace. Cullen had moved his back against the battlement, concealing them from anyone down below, as she leaned into him. His hands did not roam and neither did hers. The kiss felt wholly tragic and needy and as though it had no idea where to take itself. Eventually, they parted as though defeated by it. 

“Hiram is waiting for you,” he said softly.

“Tomorrow,” she said hesitantly, “Will you come to my quarters?”

Cullen’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Evelyn, I-” he said unsteadily.

“I only wish to talk,” Evelyn said quickly.

Cullen nodded his head. Evelyn parted regretfully from his arms as they said goodnight and she left to have her drink with Hiram. 


End file.
